“Yep.”
Okay, not words, plural. Word, singular. Because that’s all I can get out, at the moment.
He looks like he’s burying a grin. “Well, it just so happens, I’m in need of some art.”
I stare at him blankly, feeling like my brain has entirely disconnected from my body.
“You might’ve noticed, I’m redecorating.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of his office.
“Yep,” I say again, nodding as my eyes follow the sweep of his hands. I’m not really interested in looking around his office, but I can’t spend another second staring athim, or I’m going to spontaneously combust from what I tell myself is sheer mortification.
Notattraction.
Definitely not.
I’m just embarrassed I threw myself at him last night, when he was a stranger, when we were two ships, passing in the night. Now, in the harsh light of day, I’m understandably uncomfortable.
This fluttery feeling in my stomach has absolutely nothing to do with how good he looks in that shirt, or how my skin actually tingles whenever he looks at me.
Nothing at all.
My eyes narrow, moving from the windows to the walls to the gleaming hardwood, taking it in with the practiced, professional gaze I’ve used countless times to assess artwork.
It’s clearly a man’s office — the furniture is all black, chrome, and glass. There’s a masculine feel to everything — sharp edges and angles — and there are no knickknacks laying around, nor are there fresh-cut flowers or any personal decorations. Sure, this could be because he’s still in the middle of a transition, but I don’t think so. I get the sense that if I come back in six months, when the construction workers and painters and renovators are gone, it will still look exactly the same as it does now.
Utilitarian. Pragmatic. Cold.
“Well, you’ve got a good space,” I say, swallowing. If he isn’t going to talk about our cumulative seven minutes in heaven last night, or that we almost ended up in bed together, or the fact that he’s brought me here under false pretenses, I’m sure as hell not about to bring it up. “And the white is definitely an improvement over the garish green the previous tenant used.Bleh. Just awful,” I murmur lightly. “Whoever picked that palette needs his eyes examined.”
“I’ll be sure to tell my uncle to make an appointment,” he says dryly, his voice thick with amusement.
My eyes fly to his and I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.
There’s my damn Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome, acting up again.
“Oh, god, Mr. Croft, I’m so sorry.”
His eyebrows go up at my use ofMr. Croftbut I keep speaking before he can get a word out.
My eyes are wide on his. “I swear, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I plow onward.
“You uncle’s taste is lovely—”
“No, it’s not,” he cuts me off, his lips twitching. “Why do you think I’m redesigning the space?”
“But—”
“Gemma.” He says my name in that deep voice and my mouth snaps shut instantly.
Shit.
“Do something for me,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I nod.
“My name is Chase — use it. Don’t call me Mr. Croft.” His voice is deadly serious — I can tell this is important to him, for some reason he doesn’t care to share.