Page 68 of Reckless King

He shrugs. “It’s home.”

I regard him for a second. Is he being humble or quietly smug? It’s hard to tell with him. But this time, there’s a hint of what I could almost swear is vulnerability in his eyes.

I wander farther into the apartment, turning my head from side to side as I take it all in. The décor is masculine. Hardly a surprise. Rich, dark woods contrasting with sleek, modern furnishings. The living room is centered around a minimalist fireplace. The kitchen looks state-of-the-art, with marble countertops, high-end appliances and an island large enough to host a dinner party around. There’s a formal dining area next to it, with a huge table surrounded by plush chairs and lit by a modern chandelier.

It’s not my cozy, comfortable one-bedroom apartment, and it’s ridiculously large—not to mention it must be outrageously expensive—yet I like it. It fits Tate. Maybe I don’t know him well enough to actually make that assertion, but it’s hard to imagine another place that would feel more like him.

I’m running my fingers over the huge couch, savoring the buttery softness of the leather, when he clears his throat.

“Let me show you to your bedroom,” he says, his voice a little gruffer than normal. It’s probably as weird for him to have me in his home as it is for me to be here.

“Okay.” I follow along as he points out all the different rooms: his office, a home gym, a couple of guest rooms. With each room we pass, I’m more confused. Why doesn’t he put me in one of them? It isn’t until we’re near the end of the hallway that a disturbing thought occurs to me. Surely he doesn’t expect me to sleep in his room with him, does he?

Finally, Tate stops outside a large set of double doors. “And this is my bedroom.”

My throat dries, and I stare at him with wide eyes. “Your bedroom?”

A smile curves his mouth, and he takes a step closer. “My bedroom.” His voice is low, gravelly. “Is that okay with you?”

“Well, I—uh.” Why can’t I string a sentence together? Is it because I’m shocked at his audacity, or is it because my mind has already provided a visual of what’s bound to be a large bed, and what it might be like to share that bed with him? Does he sleep naked? Would he touch me? Do I want him to?

“And over there, butterfly,” he says, using his fingers to turn my head so I’m facing the opposite side of the corridor, “is your bedroom.”

From the tone of his voice and his devilish grin, he knew exactly what I was thinking, and the bastard leaned into that misunderstanding. The prickle of irritation I used to feel around him, the one that’s frustratingly been replaced by butterflies in my stomach, makes a brief return. “How nice for me that I get to be so close,” I say dryly.

He cocks a brow. “Just say the word, and you can be closer.”

It takes all my strength to keep from smiling, from showing him just how close I am to letting my walls fall. A woman can only take so much sexy, flirtatious billionaire before she throws all her convictions out the window.

He chuckles as if he knows anyway, but he leaves the teasing there and opens the door for me, revealing a guest room that’s more luxurious than any hotel suite I’ve ever been in. A plush queen-size bed dominates the space, while the floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto the terrace. A cozy seating area in the corner looks perfect for curling up and reading a book.

“Wow,” I breathe, forgetting my nervousness about being so close to Tate’s bedroom. “This is incredible.”

“My fiancée deserves the best. Of course, the best is my bedroom, so technically, this is second best. If it doesn’t meet your expectations, let me know, and I can arrange an upgrade.”

I shake my head, though I can’t help but laugh. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when it comes to you, apparently.”

Heart in my throat, I appraise him. He watches me too, his expression more serious than I expect, considering he’s just been teasing me. I swallow hard and look away from the intensity of his gaze.

Tate, unfazed, hands me my bag. “While you get settled in, I’ll get started on dinner.”

My eyes shoot back to his. “You cook?”

He shrugs, still completely at ease. “On occasion. This seems like an occasion.”

“Can I help?”

He nods toward the large walk-in closet. “Get sorted, and if you’re done before dinner is ready, then I’ll put you to work.”

Once he’s gone, I close the door, take a deep breath and survey the huge room again, shaking my head in disbelief. Then I snap myself back into the moment and begin unpacking. Myhands shake slightly as I fold clothes and put them away or hang them in the spacious closet. The significance of what I’m doing—moving in with Tate—is not lost on me. I can’t help but worry that this new arrangement will confuse my already dangerously confused emotions even more.

Once my things are put away, I head back to the kitchen, grinding to a halt when I round the corner. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.

Tate is standing there, partly turned away from me as he chops vegetables, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants.

My heart rate shoots through the roof as I take in the way his smooth golden skin moves over the hard planes and angles of his shoulders and back while he works. Even from this angle, I can make out the cut of muscle at his hip. If he were facing me, I’d no doubt get the full effect of that V leading my eyes directly down to the waistband of his sweatpants.

---