Page 41 of House of Deceit

“It would be the height of unprofessionalism for me to have a crush on my contestant. I just want you to win so I can become a director. Other than that, I have no interest in you.”

My heart squeezes for a fraction of a second, but the last thing I want to do is show him his words affected me. He sits there in his usual all black outfit, perfectly tailored, and I do what any insulted, hurt person would do.

I change the subject.

“How do you keep your clothes so black?” I ask him. “Do you have someone do your laundry? All of your clothes look brand new and it’s pissing me off. Mine are all faded to various shades of gray.”

He looks down at his shirt, awkwardly holding his arms out from his body. “No, I just wash it all inside out on gentle.”

“No special soap?”

“I’m very confused about this line of questioning,” he says.

His anger seems to be dissipating rapidly at my off-the-wall line of questioning, but at least I got him away from telling me in no uncertain terms he could never be attracted to me.

“Well, I’m very confused by how you look like you only own one outfit and yet it looks brand new every day. We’ve been here what, almost three weeks if you include the time we were at the hotel? I have yet to see you in a different outfit. How many of that shirt do you own?”

He shrugs, nonplussed. “I don’t know, quite a few. It makes getting ready for the day easier.”

“Do you own any other clothes?”

“Why wouldn’t I own other clothes?”

“What are they? Footie pajamas? I bet you have some footie pajamas with the little butt flap.”

A bark of laughter breaks out of him. Seeing his happy side makes my insides feel fuzzy like a freshly popped bottle of champagne.

“I don’t have footie pajamas with a butt flap,” he says, laugh lines by his eyes.

“Do you have some without a butt flap?”

“No, I don’t have any footie pajamas, period. I sleep in boxer briefs.”

I feel my cheeks turn pink and I want nothing more than to see these boxer briefs.

“They are black, though. And I have silk sheets,” he adds. He looks almost shocked with himself at the level of personal details he just shared with me.

“What a cliché,” I laugh, not shocked this stunningly hot man is the epitome of a playboy.

“Which part?” he asks with what seems to be genuine curiosity.

“The sheets and the all black.”

“I don’t only decorate in or only own black. I’m not a funeral director. Or a vampire.”

“I never thought you were a vampire. Your teeth aren’t sharp enough,” I joke again.

He rolls his eyes. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“I notice you didn’t say you’re not Batman, though.” I tap my lips with my finger, giving him fake consideration.

“Do you think I’d do this job if I was a billionaire vigilante?”

“Maybe you want to stay humble?” I offer.

“I’m not Batman.”

“Prove it,” I demand.

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