“Thanks.”
“And clean,” I note.
“I like order.”
My mouth twitches again. “I’ve noticed.”
“Is it a problem?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
And it isn’t. So, he has a thing against germs and likes having a clean space. Both of those are good things, aren’t they? They’re also a stark reminder I shouldn’t be here.
We have rules, and for some strange reason, one of his involves my presence in his personal space.
“You look like you’re freezing,” he notes, watching as I rub my hands up and down my bare arms.
“It started raining during my run.” I pull my sopping ponytail over one shoulder to keep it from dripping all over his floor. It doesn’t help.
“Do you want to use my shower?”
My brows pull. “Are you sure it isn’t against the rules?”
“We have an hour to waste. Might as well make you comfortable.”
“I’m fine.”
“Let me take care of you for once.”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
“Humor me, Brat.”
Without waiting for my response, he heads down the hallway he came from, and I follow until we reach a massive bedroom. There isn’t a single fold in the comforter. The sheets are freshly pressed and tucked beneath the mattress. The carpet looks freshly vacuumed too. Part of me wonders if he cleans it himself or if he has a maid who takes care of everything for him. Probably both, considering his OCD tendencies.
The reminder of how opposite we really are amuses me, and I don’t bother to hide it as I take in his perfectly primped room. I 'm pretty sure he'd have an aneurysm if he ever saw my apartment.
Oh, wait.
He kind of did see it.
A large walk-in closet is on the left, and another archway leads to the master bathroom. I hesitate when I realize where he’s taking me.
“Yours?” I ask.
He stops and faces me. “Is that a problem?”
“I guess I assumed you’d have a spare bathroom or something.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You’ve done many things, Professor. Disappointing me isn’t one of them. Yet.” I pat his cheek as I slip past him into the bathroom. I’m greeted with white marble countertops, charcoal-colored cabinets, a tub big enough to easily fit two grown adults, and a long, rectangular shower surrounded by glass with two shower heads.
And I thought my bathroom was over the top.
It’s crazy. And foreign. And a major reminder of how wealthy this guy is. So much so, it almost makes me uncomfortable. I was raised on PB&J sandwiches. On ramen noodles and tap water. Part of me wonders if Henry’s ever tasted tap water or if the sparkling shit that tastes like ass is all he’s ever consumed.
This is why I should’ve never come to his apartment.
It’s too personal.
Too…intimate almost.
I don’t belong here.
“You know what? I think I’ll skip the shower.” I turn around but run smack-dab into Henry’s warm, hard chest.
He catches me around my waist and keeps me from stumbling. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Seriously, it’s nothing.”
“Mia.” His tone brooks no argument. It’s like a whip. A gavel.
And I know there’s no way I’m getting out of this without having a conversation I really don’t want to have.
I guess it’s like he said. We have an hour to waste, right? Why not make it as uncomfortable as possible, shall we?
30
MIA
Avoiding his gaze in the mirror, I take in the luxurious bathroom one more time. It screams Henry Buchanan in every way. Which makes sense, all things considered. Clean. Precise. Masculine. His cologne clings to the air. There isn’t a single item on the counter other than a slim bottle of hand soap on the left side of the sink and a toothbrush placed carefully in its holder. A blue light shines on the bristles, sterilizing them.
Of course, he has one of those things. Part of me is curious how much it cost him. The other part? Yeah, I’m not sure I want to know.
“Mia,” he warns when I’ve stayed silent for too long.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say.
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem telling me why you look like you’re crawling out of your skin.”
“I’m not crawling out of my skin,” I lie, peeking up at him. “It’s…uh, sometimes I forget how wealthy you are.”
His eyes harden. “Is my wealth a problem for you?”
“Since we aren’t even dating, it wouldn’t matter if it was, but no. It’s not a problem,” I lie. Again. “It’s…different.”
“Different?”
I drag my fingers along the fluffy gray hand towel hanging on the wall next to the sink, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “Yeah. Different.”
“How so?”
Brushing my fingers together, I note the lack of dust in here, as well, while murmuring, “You and I are opposites, Professor. Sometimes it’s hard to wrap my head around it. Why you’re spending time with me. But then I remind myself it’s for the awesome sex and poof.” I paste on a fake-ass grin and look up at him. “Reservations gone.”
He doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t buy my forced amusement. Instead, his eyes thin, and he studies me in the same unnerving way, making me want to squirm.
“You have a thing about money, don’t you.” It’s not a question.
“A thing?” I laugh and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, but the bastard doesn’t crack. He simply keeps looking at me. Piecing together way more than he has any right to.
“You don’t like it,” he pushes.
I gulp and lift my chin. “I don’t like what it does to people.”
“What does it do to people, Mia?”
“Makes them selfish. Desperate. Hungry. Lazy. Depends on what side of the coin you’re on.”
Grabbing my bicep, he forces me to face him, leaving a few inches between us. I’m not sure if he needs the distance or if it’s for my own benefit.
“If you hate it so much, why did you sell pictures of yourself online?” he challenges.
“I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”
“My IT guy threw out an estimate as to how much money you likely made after he took the photos down. It was no small amount.”
I suck my lips between my teeth, not sure what to say while feeling more trapped than I’d like to admit. Other than Buchanan, no one’s ever asked me this. No one’s ever thought to ask me this. It’s too personal. Too nosy. Too rude. But the answer is even more shameful. More stupid. Okay, not entirely. Selfless, sure. But stupid? Actually, yeah. Kind of. And admitting it to him? Financial guru with a side of Judgy McJudgerson? No, thank you.
An overwhelming need to defend myself falls over me as I cross my arms and raise my chin even higher. “I’m surprised you didn’t hire a detective to figure it out for you.”
“You still haven’t answered me.”