“And you could keep your hair up, couldn’t you?”
I glare at him and run a self-conscious hand through my hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
He looks it over and waves a hand. “It’s so boring. Just brown. Don’t you ever curl it? Or cut it, even, good Lord are you trying to break a record?”
“What if I am?”
“You aren’t. You just don’t care how you look.”
That somehow stings, and I flash heated eyes at him as we step into the elevator.
“Excuse me? I’m very proud of my hair, thank you very much. It took years to grow it this long, I like the color, and curling would only damage it. What about you? Who told you that frosted tips were still a thing?”
He grins. “Can’t remember.”
“Because it was so long ago, or because you were drunk?”
He winks at me but doesn’t answer. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. “Here we are,” he says. “The penthouse suite.”
I roll my eyes as I step through the door, determined not to be impressed. He hadn’t earned any of this, after all. I’m almost relieved to step into a living room a bit smaller than my own.
“This is nice enough,” I say, glancing at the generic couch against one wall. It sits beside a shoe rack which holds far fewer pairs than I had anticipated. I assume the TV is in the cupboard across from the couch. It’s way closer to the apartments I had looked at for myself than I had envisioned.
Maverick furrows his brow at me. “Umm...this is just the foyer.”
I have maybe a second to wonder if that word means something else in London than it does here before he slides a pair of pocket doors apart to reveal a sun-bathed multi-level living room filled with leather furniture and gilded crystal. A massive fireplace sits in the center of the room, burning blue in spite of the fact that it’s not that cold outside. I swallow hard.
The conversation pit alone is bigger than my entire apartment. My bedroom could fit in the fireplace and get sent straight to hell. Floor-to-ceiling windows give a stunning view overlooking the city, simultaneously giving a perfect view of my grungy neighborhood a few blocks over. I wander around in aimless awe past a wet bar full of bottles, and a stereo system which must have cost more than a year’s tuition.
“It’ll do for now,” he says with a blasé shrug.
“Oh, of course. It’s missing the uniformed guards and acres of lawn.”
He frowns, looking so legitimately puzzled that I would have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t such an ass.
“You sound as if you don’t like it.”
“It’s excessive. What does an eighteen-year-old need with a penthouse anyway?”
“Well I need a roof over my head. Why are you angry?”
I gesture around. “Look at this! No wonder you’re getting into trouble. How do you keep this place clean?” I regret the words as soon as they are out of my mouth because I know what the answer will be.
His puzzled frown deepens. “You mean, in between? I don’t bother with it.”
I sigh. “In between what?”
“Well, you know, when the cleaners don’t come through.”
“When the cleaners don’t come through,” I repeat, shaking my head.
“I’m glad you reminded me,” he says. “I nearly forgot about them. Of course immigration will want to discuss my relationship with the help, so you’ll need to leave evidence lying around.”
“You’re telling me to make a mess in your house to prove that I live here.”
“Of course! How else would you prove it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, by introducing myself to the staff maybe?”
He frowns. “Why on earth would you do that?”
I rub my temples. It’s like talking to an alien. “Okay, show me the rest of the place.”
The kitchen is massive, spotless and full of junk food.
There are three bathrooms. Three. For one guy!
The master bedroom is enormous with a four-poster king-sized bed covered in clashing animal prints. There is a library full of books that I’m pretty sure he’s never actually used, two guest rooms, a game room, and a music room full of exercise equipment. The labyrinthine style of it indicates that this floor was initially designed to house at least six apartments but had been changed at some point to serve as this ridiculous penthouse.
“Here’s the best part,” Maverick says as he stalks through the living room again with me behind him, trying to keep my face in check.
He stops in front of a huge sliding glass door that I had somehow missed the first time and steps out onto a patio. At least I suppose it is a patio—it’s taking up a full corner of the building and has its own swimming pool.
Potted shrubs and trees sit in a haphazard sort of pattern as if they are supposed to circle the high wall but had been moved again and again by an inconsiderate stumbler.
“Home at last,” he says, tugging on the back of his collar and sweeping his shirt off, revealing his hard, muscular body and that tattoo Jeanne had been so excited about. I have to admit the art is pretty good. The canvas would have been drool-worthy if it weren’t attached to such a damn troll.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer but instead starts to unfasten his belt. Embarrassed, I turn around and look at the flowers on a shrub instead. A moment later I’m soaked from head to heel by a wave of water splashing out of the pool. Gasping in shock and fury I turn around and glare at the pool. He surfaces and grins at me.
“Cannonball,” he chuckles, “Oh, was I supposed to say that first?”
“You’re an ass. My clothes are soaked, what am I supposed to do about that?”
He shrugs. “Take them off and get in. It’s heated, you know.”
The water that splashed me, didn’t exactly feel warm, but that probably has a lot to do with the fact that I’m already freezing standing out here. I swear, it wasn’t this cold when we were walking in. “It’s October,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s heated,” he repeats slowly. “Come on. You aren’t scared that I’ll see that horrible bra and pant set again, are you? It can’t possibly shock me a second time.”
I can feel my face starting to heat up. I want to storm inside, but I feel as if he’s just dared me somehow, and I am not one to back down from a challenge. Ever. I rip my shirt off and toss it on top of his clothes.
“Hey! Now my things will be wet.”
“Good. Means we’re even.” I hesitate to unfasten my pants, but my ego is already in that pool, puffing its chest out. I’m in way too deep to back down now.
I kick off my shoes and strip out of my pants, then walk to the stairs at the shallow end.
“Oh come on, are you old or chicken? Jump in!”
I glare at him and walk around to the other end of the pool. He’s starting to get to me. I’m letting him get to me. I know this, but I don’t care. I jump in.
6
I feel it’s important to note that I am not, in fact, a murderous asshole. Well, an asshole perhaps, but certainly not murderous. I fully expect this insane girl to leap up out of the frigid pool and curse my name from here to Sunday. While the pool does have the capability to be heated—and occasionally is—it doesn’t happen to be warm on this particular day as I’ve been putting myself through some intense stamina training.