Home > Purchased Husband (Trophy Husbands #4)(7)

Purchased Husband (Trophy Husbands #4)(7)
Author: Noelle Adams

My workstation consists of three desks, three large monitors, top-of-the-line computers, and absolutely no clutter. Some people—like my partner, Steve—thrive on clutter, but I don’t. I find it annoying and distracting, so I was relieved to discover that Damian is basically a neat person.

Unfortunately, he’s also a sexy person. I notice this particularly as I glance over at his approach. My condo has a large, airy main room that’s a living room, dining room, and kitchen combined. He’s walking into the kitchen area, wearing gray pajama pants and a plain white T-shirt. He’s barefoot. His hair hasn’t been combed. He needs to shave.

All these details combine to evoke a sudden surge of physical interest that leaves me momentarily frozen.

Hot. Motionless. Annoyed.

And distracted.

“Is something wrong?” Damian asks in his bland, relaxed manner that I normally appreciate but at the moment intensifies the degree of my mental discomposure.

“No,” I manage to say. I also manage to wrench my eyes away from his straight back, broad shoulders, and tight ass, which are clearly revealed to me in my position since he’s facing the coffeepot.

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Why would something be wrong?” I keep my eyes diligently focused on the monitor where my email inbox is displayed.

“I don’t know. You seem kind of tense. Bad mood?”

“No, I’m not in a bad mood,” I grit out.

His eyebrows shoot up, which I can see since my gaze has strayed back over to him in the kitchen, which is divided from the rest of the room by a large, granite-topped peninsula. “Okay.”

“Sorry,” I add, realizing there’s no reason to snap at him. It’s not his fault I’m irrationally attracted to him. He’s obviously not doing this to me on purpose. “I usually don’t chat much in the mornings.”

“Oh, okay.” He doesn’t look offended or annoyed by my excuse, but he also isn’t discouraged in his continued attempts at conversation. “Do you always get up so early?”

“Usually. I’m more of a morning person.”

“Yeah. I am too. I usually get to the library by seven when I can. I like it when it feels like most of the world is asleep.”

“Me too.” I can feel a little smile play around the corners of my mouth, and because Damian’s eyes are scanning my face right now, I know he’ll see it. For some reason I feel the need to hide it, so I take a long sip of orange juice.

“It’s like we’re getting a head start on the day.” Damian drinks his coffee black. And he evidently eats cereal for breakfast. He’s pouring some into a bowl as he speaks. “So I won’t be around for long to bug you.”

“I never said you were bugging me.”

He makes a huff. My eyes shoot back over to his face to investigate the meaning of the breathy sound, but his expression is as bland and unrevealing as ever.

It’s frustrating. That the man isn’t inclined to show me what he’s thinking. I’m used to being able to read people pretty well.

Deciding that extending this conversation will only interfere with my work momentum, I turn back to the coding I’ve been playing around with. Damian evidently recognizes that I’m trying to work since he doesn’t say anything else. He walks around to sit at one of the stools at the peninsula and reads on his phone as he eats.

He eats.

Cereal.

It’s a crunchy food.

I can hear him chewing.

It’s not like he’s a messy eater. His mouth is closed as he chews, and he doesn’t slurp his milk or make other obnoxious sounds. But the room is otherwise silent, and I can hear him eat.

It’s very distracting.

I try to ignore it, but I keep shooting my eyes over to see what he’s doing, wondering how a normal person eating a bowl of cereal can make that much noise.

On about the tenth time I turn to look at him, Damian murmurs without ever looking up from his phone, “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

“No! Why would there be?” It’s not like me to hold back what I’m thinking, but it does seem rather unreasonable to snipe at someone for nothing more than chewing their cereal.

“I don’t know. I’m sensing some hostility aimed in this direction.” He’s still not looking at me. His eyes are focused on his phone, and his tone is mild and pleasant.

“It’s not hostility. I’m just not used to having someone else around. Hearing them eat.”

He lowers his phone and arches his eyebrows at me again, even higher this time. “It’s pretty hard to eat cereal without crunching.”

“I know that! That’s why I wasn’t complaining about it.”

“Ah. I see. Do you want me to take my cereal into my own room?”

Damian moved into the guest suite at the end of last week. Since he’s keeping his own apartment, he didn’t move any furniture in. Just his clothes and personal items plus the stuff he needs to work on his dissertation. His rooms in my condo are large and comfortable and include an attached sitting room with a couch, television, desk, and a kitchenette. Had he wanted, he could have spent nearly all his time there. Part of me had expected it since he seemed concerned about his privacy.

And part of me wants to ask him to stay there.

But it’s not a part of me that I like. It’s not fair to expect his life for the next six months to be limited to a couple of rooms in my condo. If he’s going to live here, I need to let him live here. I’ll just need to get used to the distractions.

“No,” I tell him after a very brief hesitation. “I don’t want that. I’ve lived alone since college, so it’s going to take some adjusting for me. But it’s my problem. Not yours. I’ll get used to it.”

“Okay.” He levels a look at me. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. I’d be a pretty big jerk if I told you to stay in your room for six months.”

He gives a half shrug. “Not necessarily. You’re paying a lot for my services, and you’re not asking me to provide all that much in return. I’ll stay out of your way if you prefer.”

“No need. I’ll get used to the chewing.”

He gives another huff. I’m almost certain this one is amusement. “I’ll try to chew softer.”

That seems to resolve the conversation, so I turn back to my work. Maybe Damian is trying to reduce the sound of his chewing, but it doesn’t work. I can still hear him.

After a few minutes, I say out of the blue, “I would have thought you were a smoothie guy.”

He lowers his spoon. It looks like he’s almost done anyway. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. You just look like one of those guys who work out all the time and drink some sort of superfood organic smoothie with a bunch of kale and stuff in it.”

He gives his head a small shake. “I’m not one of those guys.”

“Then how do you have that body?” This is yet another example of my blurting things out that more careful people would keep inside.

He looks down at himself, as if remembering the condition of his own body. He raises his eyes again to meet mine. The blue-green color of them is so intense I can see it even from here. It’s highly unnerving.

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