Page 51 of Adam
Slowly, I open the door and step into her room. She looks … off. Kind of startled, but also, I’d say—relieved?
“It’s you …” She exhales softly, her eyes dropping to the floor.
“Disappointed?”
Her blue eyes snap right back at mine, and that sense of relief floods her face again. “On the contrary.”
Yet you didn’t pick up my calls.
I hum, a soft smile tugging at my lips before I can stop it. Perhaps she’s not afraid of me. Or maybe she’s more afraid of everyone else in this house.
She’s wearing a simple soft, dusty pink A-line minidress, that clings just enough to show off that toned body. Her hair’s doneup in one of those perfectly careless half up-dos, like she’s trying not to look too perfect—as if that’s possible. And those little white orchid pins are trying to sell innocence. But nothing about her looks innocent to me.
I can’t help but wonder … How often does she wear them? Was it just a random choice the day I met her, or does she actually cherish them? Does she wear them often … for herself, or for someone else?
My eyes narrow as my gaze lands on the small black notebook in her hands.
I cross my arms. “Studying?”
“Not exactly,” she chirps, turning the page proudly. “I realized that I don’t know anything about you.”
“Strange, considering you asked me to be the man you’d spend every waking hour with.” I smile broadly with amusement, giving her a sidelong glance. “I guess mystery was part of the charm, huh?”
“Grow up.”
Ouch! Did she really just go spiteful on me?
“You’re starting to sound like you think you don’t need me, little orchid.”
She tilts her head, her gaze piercing mine intensely before she takes a seat on the velour pink armchair in front of that frilly little makeup vanity. Or whatever the hell women call it.
“I have some questions for you,” she says, crossing her legs, turning the page back again.
God, isn’t she amusing as hell?
“Alright,” I exhale, heading toward her bed. I lie back, hands behind my head, eyes locked on her. “I’m all yours.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Mmm,” I say, the name slipping out a little too fast like a fucking idiot. “Mitchell.”
Not my best work, but it’ll do.
She ponders for a few seconds, and I’m left wondering whether she bought it or is just thinking of her next question. My eyes wander around the room. There’s an easel in the corner by the window, right next to a pink ledge pillow. The canvas is blank, and there’s no sign of any paint or colors nearby.
Abruptly, she speaks again. “Age?”
“Won’t you write them down?” I ask sarcastically with a nod.
“Unless you’ve got five names like some soap opera character, then no.” She turns solemn, eyes narrowing. “Age?”
It’s maddening how hard it is not to smile when she throws those smartass little quips. Like she doesn’t even know what she does to me. Or maybe she does, and that’s what makes it worse.
However, I keep my cool.
“Thirty.”
“Really? You look younger.”
