Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [69]
“I know it’s a little showy,” Brendan said, curling his lips in an annoyed-looking grimace. “The kitchen alone…you’d think someone in this family actually cooked. My floor is way more low-key.”
“Your floor?” I croaked. He might as well have said, “My island. You know, it’s just a little place I keep, for fun.” My stomach twisted in knots. Destined soul mate, my rosy peasant butt. There was no way this perfect guy, with this kind of life, was going to settle for me.
Brendan pulled me back to the staircase again, and we passed the third floor. “My parents’ floor—their bedroom, and my dad’s office, some other crap,” he said dismissively as we continued climbing. Finally, we arrived at the fourth floor.
“You’re in the penthouse?” I squeaked, meaning for it to come out teasing. Instead, it came out insecure. If Brendan noticed, he ignored it.
He pushed open the door, which was the same dark wood as the stairway. I braced myself, expecting to see a four-poster bed, or oh, raw uncut diamonds just scattered about, glittering on the floor. Maybe his walls would be solid gold. I stepped in and was happily surprised.
Pushed against the exposed-brick left wall was a bed, messily covered by a dark blue comforter. There was no majestic, fit-for-a-king headboard or frame—although it was a pretty big mattress—and a TV hung on the opposite wall, which was cool white plaster. His computer desk looked like it was from IKEA—simple and functional. Perched on it was a pricy-looking laptop, and several expensive-looking speakers snaked out from behind it. Aside from his deejay equipment pushed into a corner, there was some other modest furniture—a couple of dressers, a dark couch, a nightstand—but, like the computer desk, they all looked simple. The only adornments on the snow-white walls were a corkboard above his desk and some framed posters of musicians—from classic rock like The Who to deejays I’d never even heard of.
I was aware of Brendan’s eyes watching me as I walked along the perimeter of his room, examining his well-stocked collection of vintage vinyl, and stopping to look at the Han Solo figurine perched on top of his speakers.
“Oh, hey, wait,” Brendan said, racing over and pulling something off the corkboard above his desk.
“What, is that an ex-girlfriend’s photo?” I asked lightly, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.
“No, it’s nothing,” he said, stuffing it into his pocket.
“C’mon, let me see,” I wheedled, tugging at his shirt. “You said no secrets.”
Brendan grabbed me around the waist. “Maybe later,” he murmured into my ear, kissing my neck. I felt my knees go a little weak and was glad that he was holding me—I could have collapsed at that moment.
“I’m really glad you came over, Emma,” he whispered, his voice tickling my ear before he resumed kissing my neck. I leaned into his chest, happily, perfectly content—until a voice in the back of my head told me I should be uncomfortable in this situation. You’re reading fairy tales and all of a sudden, you go to some strange guy’s house? Alone? Way to put yourself in a bad situation. What’s next, taking apples from strangers? Is this just a big seduction ploy?
I disentangled myself from his embrace—without any grace at all, I basically just bolted from his arms. I hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings, but I’d felt too comfortable, too content—all too quickly—in his arms.
“Did I do some—” Brendan started, but I wouldn’t let him finish.
“I just— I mean, I still don’t— Um, I’m sorry,” I stammered, feeling foolish. I daydream for a month about kissing him, now I flee when he does?
Brendan seemed to understand, and just grabbed his laptop and sat on his couch.
“Hey, want to see something?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on the worn-looking black leather.
“Check these out. My grandfather gave me a bunch of old family photos. I scanned them in. There