The morning after he and Emma had sealed their no-more-shenanigans agreement, Brody leaned against the counter in his kitchen, the Gruenfeld report in one hand, his phone in the other as it vibrated annoyingly.
Another text from his sister. Apparently not content to be a regular pain in his ass, she had graduated to royal while she indulged her latest talent as pimp. Every recent text came with either a set of measurements, a pic of one of her wedding party, or a list of likes and dislikes. Today’s installment read: Gabby likes Coldplay (don’t hold it against her). Hates fresh flowers (I know, weird). And is totally up for it since some rodeo dick told her she didn’t get his spurs twirlin’. f*ck
ing Texan men!
His sister had an acute case of wedding brain and it was making her loco. Brody, too.
The idea of banging any one of his sister’s friends turned his stomach. Of course, it wouldn’t be happening, because not even his pain-in-the-ass sister could force him to have sex with anyone. All of them were nice enough girls, but repellent when his mind was jam-packed with thoughts of the woman currently singing—badly—in the shower.
Brody had spent four and a half minutes outside the guest bathroom door, listening to Emma murder “A Total Eclipse of the Heart,” not that the song needed help to be the worst piece of dreck ever composed. He’d only left because the cat had stopped by to stare at him accusingly. But before all that, before the bad singing and the nosy cat and the meddling texts from his sister, there had been something even more disturbing.
Socks.
This morning, he’d strolled into his walk-in closet and found gray socks with a blue TARDIS, the Doctor’s time machine, on each one. He knew that ingrate of a cat wouldn’t have sprung for a gift even if he had the opposable thumbs and funds necessary to go online shopping, so that left Emma.
She didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of, yet here she was spending money on something so frivolous. It made no sense. But then, the woman was an enigma.
Had Brody really thought that returning to the status quo would be possible? He wanted order back. His perfect, and perfectly boring, life as it was run by Ms. Strickland. A return to the Ms.-Mr., the buzzing over his skin when she was near and not being able to touch her, the unsatisfactory orgasms with her as the focus.
For the last six months, this near-reclusiveness in the haven of his tower on the sixtieth floor had been his normal. His misery had been his safety net. But a key had been turned in that club, and something unlocked yesterday morning on the floor of his bedroom. Lines—horizontal, vertical, and every which way—had been crossed. He understood her need to preserve the boundaries. Well, she shouldn’t have bought him f*ck
ing socks.
He set his mind to making coffee in the cafetiere; sometimes the one-button push of the Keurig wasn’t challenging enough and he needed the motions of doing. Boiling the water, measuring out the grounds, the depression of the plunger.
Plunging. Damn, even coffee was making him horny.
Glancing down, he found Kevin glowering, looking like he’d murdered Brody three times in his fantasy life before breakfast. Brody did not enjoy cats. He suspected he was the only person in the world who did not appreciate cat videos. After a ten-second face-off, he reached for a tin of tender turkey Tuscany with long grain rice and garden greens in a savory sauce, and got busy serving the new ruler. As he set the bowl down, Kevin hissed at him.
“You and I are going to have to get along, you little f*ck
er. I’m giving you a roof over your head, treats to eat.”
Cat eye roll.
“Fine, have it your way. I don’t need your approval.” Brody stood and moved a few feet away so the cat wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. Because it was all about catering to his needs. Jesus.
A soft giggle spiked all the hairs on his neck. “That’s what we all say, but when push comes to shove, we’re merely minions.”
Emma flounced into the kitchen, wearing Brody’s frayed Texas A&M tee, though pj’s had been included in that shopping spree yesterday. Flannel ones that covered every inch of her kissable skin from his greedy gaze. She really should be wearing the things he bought her, not flitting about the kitchen looking so cute he could take a bite out of her. And for Kevin’s sake, no bra, either.
The penthouse had six bedrooms. Maybe he should have installed a guest kitchen.
“May I?” She gestured to the cupboard behind him.
He stepped out of the way and admired as she stood on tiptoe to grab a coffee pack. Hazelnut. He must make sure to get more of those in. The motion hitched up the tee to reveal the backs of smooth, toned thighs his fingers itched to dig dents into. He longed to bruise her with his mark.