Page 12 of Heartless Boss
I swallow hard and my stomach clenches at his words. “I’m joking.”
“Well, I’m not.” He taps his fingers on my nose.
Not only does he put theWin whore, but he also puts theCin crazy and all capital letters.
The door dings open, and he steps out of the elevator, taking away his body heat and replacing it with the cold draft. The way he went protective caveman ignites a passion inside me. The same passion I locked away with a key and tossed it to the side. No, this is not happening. Unfortunately, my girly parts don’t agree. My nipples pebble against the cheap fabric of my shirt, and my sex is wet as a fire hydrant.
Traitors.
Screw Gunner for making me feel things and screw him for caring about me.
I want to slap him across the face for proving me wrong, tell him to go screw himself, but I bury my anger deep inside me. I keep my head down and follow him to a white door with a keypad above the brass doorknob.
“The code is zero-four-two-six,” he says, typing in the code before turning the knob and shoving it open.
The living room is an open space with maple hardwood floors. The walls are made out of thick glass, and the city twinkles like stars below us. The view is breathtaking.
“Do you have blinds to cover the windows?” I ask. I try to tear my eyes from the windows but it’s so mesmerizing.
“You mean curtains? Yup.” He pauses for a beat. “I don’t use them because I love the view of the city.”
Gently, he tugs me by the arm, pulling me in a different direction.
There’s a black suede sectional couch and a flat screen television that sits on a metal entertainment center. Everything about this apartment screams bachelor pad. Magazines of cars, auto mechanics, and finance are neatly stacked on a rack by the sofa.
I’m not a slob, but this looks too clean for my liking. Leather and expensive cologne with a hint of cinnamon assaults my nostrils, like I’m drowning in his scent.
I’ve never lived in anything remotely as nice as this place. The closest I’ve ever lived to something nice was a two-story house when I was thirteen years old. Mr. and Mrs. Kent fostered me for two years before they sent me back because they couldn’t handle taking care of me and a newborn.
Their daughter abandoned her son to chase after a man who got her hooked on crack. And I wasn’t a stroll in the park. I lashed out and stole food. I was a troubled teenager. It was my fault they kicked me out. If I was a good kid, maybe they would have kept me.
I follow him to the kitchen. Midnight-black cabinets with gray marble counters and stylish lights hang from the ceiling. A stainless-steel fridge, stove, and dishwasher decorate the kitchen. Since my rent is super-duper cheap, I plan on adding bright colors to this black and gray kitchen. I’ll buy yellow pots and pans, colorful baking utensils. I haven’t been able to bake in a long time.
We walk into a sprawling bedroom. The headboard is molded to the black walls. The bed is decorated with a pink floral duvet with matching sheets, and just like the living room, the wall is made out of glass. I’m starting to fall in love with this place.
“Was someone else living here before I was?”
“No, as soon as I left work, I contacted my interior designer to go pick out a bedroom set and shit. This room used to be my gym.”
He did all this for me? Butterflies spill into my gut, and I can feel a blush seep into my cheeks and move to the crown of my head.
He strolls to the other side of the room and opens a white door. “We share a bathroom. My bedroom is on the other side of that door.” He points at the door straight across from the one he opened, and I walk through the spacious bathroom.
I’ve died and gone to heaven. The shower is made out of different shades of gray stone and wide enough to fit ten people. The glass sink is shaped like a fish bowl with Gunner’s manly products cluttering the black marble counters.
He didn’t have to help me, and I don’t deserve an ounce of his kindness. I stand there with my arms crossed over my chest, rocking back and forth, staring down at the black marble floors.
No one has ever gone out of their way to help me without wanting something in return unless it was Izzy.
“Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“You’re more than welcome.” His Nike sneakers come into view, and he uses his index finger to lift my chin. My cheeks burn under his touch, and I flinch. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.
My stitched heart beats wildly like she remembers who she belongs to. I’m going to have to have a serious talk with her about wanting to go to people she knows will break her.
She used to beat for my ex, but never this wildly or this urgently. After nine years, she’s come out of remission, reminding me she’s alive, able, and ready to give herself to the man she should have forgotten all those years ago.
“Rainbow ... I ...” His tone is uneven and his pulse thumps from the side of his neck.
