One is a Promise(35)

“I can have it repaired.”

“No, thanks.” I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face and neck. “For the record, that’s the second time you’ve chased a man from my house.”

“I did no such thing.” He steps through the room, scanning every detail of Cole’s hard work with his infuriating eagle eyes. “It seems you have trouble hanging onto men.”

My blood simmers, and my pulse shoots through the roof. “Nikolai is one of my many lovers. He always comes back.”

He pauses, turns his head toward me, and narrows his gaze. “You’re not fucking him.”

Though he’s right, the conviction in his tone makes me want to cold cock his clenched ass. I spin away and stride through the door that leads to the kitchen.

“You know how I know that?” He trails after me, zinging electricity up my spine.

“I don’t care.” I grab a bottled water from the fridge and chug it on my way to the shower.

“If you were spreading your legs for him,” he says, leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom, “he wouldn’t have left so quickly.”

“You don’t know—”

“You’ve turned him down so many times he’s conditioned to accept your rejection.”

How does he know that? And why is he still here? Even more troubling, why haven’t I kicked him out?

The black suit hugs his tall muscled frame. As hot as it is outside, I bet his skin is damp and warm beneath the expensive fabric. And hard. Like sun-soaked marble. His chiseled jaw, defined cheekbones, and straight nose form a regal backdrop for the blizzard churning in those cerulean eyes.

With the collar of his button-up open and a few blond strands falling haphazardly from his raked-back hairstyle, this is the most casual I’ve seen him. He’s arresting in a deliberately edgy yet effortless way that makes it so easy stare at him.

“You need to stop doing that.” He rests a hand in the front pocket of his slacks.

“Doing what?”

“Giving me the look. I’m not going to fuck you.”

Then he opens his mouth, and I’m reminded why I don’t like him.

“You’re confusing the look with annoyance.” I reach into the shower and turn on the water. “Why are you still here?”

He regards me in a way that makes me feel defensive and brittle. But he can’t hurt me. He can stand there all he wants in silent judgment. I’m taking a shower.

I hook my thumbs beneath the waistband of the shorts and ask with my eyes, Are you going to watch me undress?

He turns and ambles into the hall.

I listen for the sound of the back door as I strip and step into the tub, but I can’t hear shit over the spurting water. It would be better if he left.

Except I’m dying to know the real reason he showed up. Checking in, he said. What in the ass does that mean?

Is he wandering through my house right now? Other than Cole’s bike and the spare room crammed with dance costumes, I don’t have anything of value. Not that I’m worried about a man of his wealth stealing anything.

But he can steal information, can glean my weaknesses from the shrine in my bedroom.

Which is exactly where I find him after I shower and wrap myself in a towel.

Perched on the unmade bed with the sheets tangled beneath him, he holds a photo of Cole and me in his hands.

I yank it from his grip and return it to the dresser where countless others clutter the surface.

“What are you doing in here?” I storm toward the closet, collecting bras and panties from the dirty clothes scattered across the floor.

“Waiting on you. It’s become a dirty habit.”

I glance over my shoulder and find him lifting a black thong from the floor. I dash toward him and snatch it from his hand right before he presses it to his nose.

“Add panty-sniffing to your list of dirty habits.” I tighten the towel around my chest and return to the closet. “Really, Trace. Why are you here?”

The closet is deep enough to stand out of his line of sight as I slip into a white lacy tank top and a pair of denim cut-offs.

“The new Bissara is almost finished. It opens next week, and I want you to see it.”

“You could’ve called.” I slide my feet into gold flip-flips and exit the closet, running fingers through my wet blonde hair.

He watches my approach, his eyes shockingly unguarded and wild, like a snow storm in hell. Then slowly, they dip, tracing my hips, my legs, and lifting to linger on my breasts.

My nipples tighten against the thin fabric, and my chest feels heavy and itchy. “Trace.”

He blinks, shifts his focus to the shrine of Cole pictures on my dresser, and clears his throat. “Are you waiting for your fiancé to return?”