Page 38 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I look myself full in the eyes as I say it out loud, and the words are bitter on my tongue. It stings to admit that I'm not thewoman I thought I was. I'm something else. I'm not even sure what, now.
Until now, I've never been the type who was into assholes. On the contrary, acting like a jackass is one sure way to kill any possible attraction I might previously have had in a guy.
I'm a green flag kind of girl, and usually go for the easygoing, golden retriever types who understand that work will always be number one in my life and who don't try to change me.
A willful, egotistical man like Grayson is usually a type I would label as dangerous and avoid. Especially wealthy ones who are used to having their own way wherever they go, and whatever they choose to do.
Yet there we were, fucking like animals in the ride up to his penthouse suite.
I never understood the concept of hate fucking someone, no matter how many times Ash explained it to me. Every time Ash fell for some loser who made her cry more often than he made her laugh, I would always roll my eyes and wonder what was wrong with her to make her accept that kind of treatment.
Judgy, I know, but it just did not make any kind of logical sense to me.
Now it does.
So, I guess Grayson must be my nemesis.
Both my nemesis and my karma.
I sigh deeply as I stare into the same slightly bleary and bloodshot eyes that stare so wearily back at me. If I ever needed proof that I'm just as susceptible to professional "players" as the next girl when they look like God's gift to womankind, today would surely do it.
It finally dawns on me just how badly I owe Ash an apology, because I finally get it. Even though I hate that man, I enjoyed what we did just now with every fiber of my being. I'm onlysurprised the damned lift still fits in its shaft and goes up and down without scraping against the sides.
Grayson Wolfe may be a lot of things, but God, that man knows how to fuck.
I sigh as I turn on the tap to splash water on my face.
"Even the water in this place feels expensive," I mutter to myself as I dangle my hands in the basin, letting the coolness rise as far as my wrists, calming my hot blood and overheated skin. The bathroom looks like something out of a fairy tale, and this entire house oozes the type of careless, almost nonchalant luxury only someone who's been obscenely wealthy their entire life could possibly dream up.
I mean, take the water. It's not municipal water like everyone else's. Oh no. According to a discrete tag placed by the faucet, the water is sourced from an aquifer that rises from the ground as a naturally occurring spring high up in the Appalachian range, and has high minerality and zero contamination from heavy metalsa that's just the water in the bathroom, for fuck's sake. The stuff he showers in and flushes the WC with. Goodness only knows what the guy gets for drinking water.
Just goes to show how astonishingly wealthy Grayson Wolfe is.
That name. I'm going to have to figure out how to get rid of this desire I feel for him. We'll be sleeping in separate rooms and avoiding each other except when "on duty," but realistically we'll have to spend time talking to each other; otherwise, when we are out in public, it's going to be very noticeable how little we know about each other. Damn. I hadn't thought about that before. The thing about spending time with Grayson Wolfe is that two things have happened during most of our conversations. He's pissed me off, and we've had sex.
At this rate, it might turn into a vicious cycle, no matter what the contract stipulates.
"No more," I tell myself in the mirror. The first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem and being willing to work on it. I have a problem and I'm going to work on it. "I'm not going to sleep with him anymore." Again, I look myself in the eyes as I say it. But, do I even believe it myself?
God. It's hilarious that I'm already treating this man like an addiction. As if I've finally decided to take the cure for gambling or alcoholism, or something.
It's ridiculous, but that's exactly what it feels like. An addiction.
However, I can kick the habit, even if it's going to be like starting out on a diet when there's a fresh slice of juicy, moist chocolate cake placed in front of you every single day for the next six months.
It's fine. You're fine.
I dry my hands on the impossibly soft and fluffy clean towel on the rack and then walk out of the bathroom. My steps are light on the tiles, but nevertheless, they echo around the hollow hall as I walk back towards the living room. The space really is sparse, like he couldn't be bothered to decorate with anything more than the bare minimum. Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised if the condo came like this as a bare shell when it was originally built. Either that, or he simply got the most basic interior designer he could possibly find. Someone who knows how to charge a fortune for doing practically nothing.
Actually, that last one is probably closer to the truth. Or maybe his preferences truly are this basic.
I wonder whether he's just the type who actually likes "dull," or whether he just can't be bothered to pick anything interesting.
As I look around, I feel a chill shiver its way down my spine.
I can't believe I'm going to be living here for the next six months. The atmosphere is so…. cold. Depressing.
Looking on the bright side, I do remember him mentioning a sauna, and I bet he's got a private gym. Perhaps he's even got a swimming pool hidden away somewhere. Nothing would surprise me by this stage. Maybe once I'm settled in, I can at least enjoy perks like those, while doing my best to keep out of his way. After all, if we're not in the same room, we're not going to be screwing each other, right?
