Page 48 of Rulebreaker
“You don’t like modern-expensive?” he asks dryly.
“I like lots of expensive things, but less modern and more…homey.”
“Define homey.”
“Well, I’ll show you once we’ve had a chance to settle.”
“I’ll take your bag up to my room and then we can talk. Have you eaten?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t know how long my interview this afternoon would run…”
“Give me two minutes and then we’ll discuss dinner.”
He disappears around a corner, leaving me to explore.
And it’s more of the same.
A leather couch that looks like no one’s ever sat on it.Chandeliers that glisten with a billion crystals. A Persian carpet that probably cost more than a car. And so much more, but not a single personal item.
Except…I remember him mentioning his den.
I turn, making my way down a long hallway, in search of it, and there at the end are French doors that lead into what he said was his favorite room in the house.
And it’s like stepping into a different world.
Dark mahogany wood makes up the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall and the gorgeous desk that looks old but well-used. Across from it are two matching chairs with burgundy cushions and a rolling mahogany and glass drink cart–filled with crystal decanters and glasses is tucked into a corner.
Then there are the pictures he mentioned.
Of Frankie.
Of a very young Atlas–I would guess no more than fifteen–in a hockey uniform.
And one that gives me pause.
Five college-aged men in hockey uniforms on the ice, arms around each other.
I immediately recognize Atlas, Banks, Dash, and Royal. So the final man in the picture must be his friend Colt, the one he lost. And he was adorable. Handsome with a mischievous smile. Someone I believe I would have liked even though I’m not sure why I feel that way.
“You found my favorite room.”
I smile without turning around, continuing to study the picture I'm holding.
“I did.”
“Do you hate this space too?”
This time I turn, the picture still in my hand. “I don’t hateany of your rooms. I just find them a little soulless. Like you’re trying too hard to tamp down your emotions.”
Our eyes meet, and I note the vein throbbing in his temple.
“I’m sorry–does that offend you?” I place the picture back where it was before approaching him. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain, and the last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings.
“It doesn’t offend me, Texas. Just surprises me that you can read me so well after such a short time.” The vulnerability in his voice is captivating, something I’m willing to bet not many people hear when they talk to him.
I lift a hand, gently running my fingers across his temple. “We all have our demons, Atlas. And we tend to recognize them in others.”
“You have demons, Lily?” He studies my face gingerly.
