Page 15 of The Love You Fight For
“Congrats,” I say and mean it. “Will you be my landlord, then?”
Chris chuckles. “You’re not going to move in here, Sam.”
I raise an eyebrow at the surety in his voice. “Oh, no?”
“This isn’t the kind of penthouse you’re used to.”
He kicks a bit of gravel with his scuffed-up boots, making a show of the puff of dust that follows.
“This ain’t good for your custom paint job.” He nods to my car, then raises his hand and points to the rooftops. “No security cams on that door, either. We just got the one that points at the main parking lot. This place isn’t cut out for royalty.”
I don’t react. I make a show of checking my nails, so he thinks his attitude is boring me.
“Just show me the apartment,” I say curtly.
He doesn’t move an inch except for his eyes, dropping down my body and back up once more. I swear, it takes forever for him to complete his survey. I almost want to sass him, ask him if I’ve passed inspection, but I don’t. I just let him look and ignore how much I like it. Then, after a few deep breaths, he walks silently past me and toward the staircase that leads to the second-floor apartment. I follow.
“This staircase was just redone, so it’s sturdy,” he says as we climb the stairs. When his feet reach the porch, he gestures to the railings. “But this isn’t big enough for hosting brunch parties or high teas. Probably not a good backdrop for campaign videos either.”
Asshole. When I don’t respond, he pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. He swings it open wide, then gestures for me to enter.
“Ladies first,” he says, so I push past him and step into the apartment.
It’s not terrible. There’s not much natural light, but it’s actually larger than it looks from outside. Though that could just be because it’s empty. It’s not very wide, but it’s deep. It must run the length of the bar. I walk to the windows and open the ugly blue curtains, noting the dust motes that puff up around me when I disturb them.
“This is the living room,” Chris says. “Like I said. Not big enough for hosting parties.” He stomps his foot on the floor. “This isn’t real wood, either.” He moves to the kitchen and knocks on the white countertop. “Laminate. Not marble or granite or whatever natural stone you’d probably prefer.”
I sigh loudly.
“Cut the bullshit, Casper.”
“Just bein’ helpful, princess.” He smirks, throwing his palms up. I clench my teeth and breathe through my nose, and he hooks a thumb to the plain white fridge. “That’s new, but it’s open box from the floor. Dented on the side. All new plumbing under the sinks, though.”
I check out the kitchen. For as much as he’s trying to point out the negative, the kitchen is stylish. White subway tile backsplash, white cabinets, white counters. It works to brighten up the otherwise dark space. I follow him as he walks through a small hallway, gesturing to two doors on either side.
“Full bathroom. Only one. And laundry.”
I glance inside the bathroom. It’s like the kitchen. It’s nothing special, but it’s neat and stylish. Everything looks new.
“Whoever did the renovations did a good job picking the finishes. I assume it was a tight budget, but everything looks good,” I say honestly as I run my fingers over the sliding door that encloses the small washer and dryer. “It all looks high-end.”Ish.
“I know,” Chris says. “Thank you for noticing.”
I turn to face him, realizing for the first time just how narrow this hallway is. I can smell him. It’s familiar in a way I wish it wasn’t, and my heart speeds up in a way I wish it wouldn’t. Pine trees andmotor oil, a hint of laundry detergent and deodorant. I don’t hate it. In fact, I have to resist the urge to lean in closer and sniff. When he smirks, I know he knows.
“Thank you?” I repeat with a raised brow, and he nods.
“I did the renovations, Sam. All of ’em. And it was my idea to rent out the apartment.”
His confidence is sexy. I can’t deny that. And though I don’t want to be, I’m impressed.
“Multifaceted indeed,” I say after a moment, and he smiles proudly.
I don’t move back right away even though I know I should. When he reaches up and fingers the ends of a strand of my hair, I don’t swat him away. Instead, I tilt my head toward him a fraction of an inch and my eyes flutter shut against my will. The touch is so gentle, so comforting, that for a moment, I imagine it lulling me back to sleep after a nightmare.
“I’ll show you the bedroom.”
I might have imagined the way his voice dropped around the wordbedroom. I might have imagined the suggestive curve of his lips, too. I tell myself I did and follow him through the door. The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, is small and dull. There aren’t even any features to dress it up. It’s just an empty, neutral-toned box with two windows.
