Page 53 of Holiday Romance
“Smaller,” I say promptly, glancing around. “Your room is smaller. I win.”
“Congratulations.” He unzips his case, his attention annoyingly not on me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your cousin’s rich.”
“He’s not.”
“Please. This place is like something out of a storybook.” I cross my arms when Andrew fails to suppress a smile, smirking to himself like there’s some joke I’m not in on. “What?”
“It’s not his.”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t his house, Moll.”
Oh, God.“Please don’t tell me we’re squatting in—”
“No.” He cuts me off as he straightens, a washbag in his hands. “A police officer is not going to come knocking on the door. At least not for that. Oliver is a gallery assistant at some tiny, ridiculous place in Mayfair. This is the owner’s house. Or one of them anyway.”
“He lives with the owner?” My voice drops to a whisper. “Is it, like, a sex thing?”
“Would you—No.” He laughs. “Theowneris a seventy-five-year-old man with dubious royal connections who stays on some Greek island during the winter because he can’t stand the cold. He doesn’t like the place being empty when he’s gone and is convinced someone’s going to steal all his artwork so, for the past three years when he’s not here, Oliver stays.”
“That’snuts.”
“It could only happen to Oli,” Andrew agrees, laying out a fresh pair of jeans on the bed. “Just don’t tell him I told you, okay? He thought it would be fun to pretend. He always wants a little drama.”
“Well, who am I to spoil his Christmas?”
Andrew just nods, continuing to sort through his clothes until my presence becomes awkward lingering.
“I might take a nap,” I announce, lacing my hands behind my back.
“Go for it.”
“I’m pretty tired.”
“I bet.”
“Then maybe after I’ll— What are you doing?” I blurt the words out as Andrew pulls his sweaterandT-shirt up over his head. My eyes immediately drop to his bare chest before I snap them back to his face.
“Undressing.”
“Why!”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Because I’m going to have a shower.” He reaches for his belt buckle, one brow raised when I just stand there. “I can put on a show if you—”
“I’m going!” I say, ignoring his smirk, and I spin out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FOUR YEARS AGO
Flight Six, Chicago
“Don’t go.”
“I have to go.”
