Page 14 of Bottles & Blades
But then he lifts his fist to knock again—which would be thefifthknock, for those keeping track—and I unstick, fingers moving to the dead bolt and disengaging it, then to the lock above the knob and disengagingthat, and then as the sound of Jean-Michel Dubois knocking for that fifth time reverberates through the wood, I twist the handle and pull open the door a couple of inches.
“What are you doing here?”
It’s snapped-out and far ruder than any tone I would normally use.
But…
What the fuck is Jean-Michel doing here?
He doesn’t answer the question I’ve uttered aloud, nor the similar one bouncing around in my head. He just…
Slowly nudges the door in, pushing me back with it.
“I—”
The inches I created when I opened it turn into a foot. Then two. Then?—
Jean-Michel is stepping into my apartment.
BillionaireJean-Michel Dubois is stepping into my apartment, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, a bag dangling from his fingers.
He turns and closes the door behind him, and theclickof the lock being engaged is gunshot loud in the tiny space.
This man is used to giant office buildings with walls of glass and mansions and private jets and?—
Oh, God.
My apartment is a mess.
I whirl around—gaze dragging over the space. My laptop is open on the battered coffee table I picked up from a street corner (which sounds bad, but it had a free sign on it and it fit in the trunk of my car so it’s what I have). Of course, the table is scratched and dented and also littered with reference books and index cards and a shit ton of different colored pens (because this is my system and I need what I need, yeah?). That’s not so bad, but the basket of clean laundry that I haven’t gotten around to folding yet is overflowing on my worn loveseat, the other half covered with mail that I haven’t had the chance to go through yet. Then there’s the fact that my bed is unmade and visible (hello studio apartment) and also covered with clean, and unfolded laundry.
Oh, and my dirty breakfast dishes are in the sink.
My mouth opens. “I?—”
His piercing blue eyes come up to mine, and there’s something in his face that I can’t read.
Likely because I’ve rushed over to the sink and I’m quickly putting my dishes in the sink, hiding them from view.
And then I’m doing more rushing—zipping by where he’s standing at the couch…and spotting what I couldn’t see from the door but what he certainly can see in his position.
My bras and underwear hanging over the plastic edges of the laundry basket.
Where I’d placed them to dry.
“Oh, my God,” I hiss under my breath, yanking them off the handle and shoving them into the pile of clothes, hiding them.
Oh, my freaking God.
A billionaire is in my apartment.
A hot billionaire whose body is filling out that suit to delicious fashion and whose smile is sexy and he’s seen my ratty bras and underwear and?—
I can’t do this.
Ican’t.
I scoop up the basket and rush it across the room, shoving it onto the far side of my bed, moving the other basket into the same spot.
