Page 40 of Wicked Angel
Especially if I was alone.
“Hi. Uh, sorry,” I repeated. “I’ll be quick. I just came to beg you to let me stay at Shayla’s place.”
He studied me with a slight scowl. “Beg?”
“Yup. Beg, whine, plead. Whatever it takes. I’m desperate here.”
“Why?”
I blew out a breath. “Because I absolutely refuse to go crawling to my sister or my parents like I always do. And no way am I going back to my—I mean, my ex-boyfriend’s apartment.”
His eyes darkened as he took that in. I could not imagine what he was thinking.
Nor did I want to.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Because, okay? No way am I putting up with a man who bounces from my arms into some glitter wearing skank’s the same day we break up and comes home embalmed in her perfume, even to be ‘roommates.’” I made vicious air quotes on the word.
Johnny’s eyes slid over my face, studying me in a way that made me swallow. “He did that?” I knew the hint of warmth—pity?—I was detecting in his voice was simply because I was one of Shayla’s besties, and if I was hurt then Shayla was hurt.
So I tried to ignore it.
“Pretty much.”
“You and the bodyguard broke up?”
“His name is Flynn. And let’s just skip the part where we totally humiliate me by reliving it, okay? I’ve had enough humiliation for a lifetime in the last twenty-four hours. So, can I please stay? As I mentioned, I will beg. I have no pride left and very little money but I do need a roof over my head.”
His eyes met mine again, briefly. “Stay if you want.” Then he walked right past me, toward the patio doors that opened into his kitchen.
“Really?” I scurried after him.
“It’s Shayla’s house,” he said, side-eying me with annoyance as I followed him into his house. That was true. Sort of. But he owned the house, and I was determined to pay my way.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you. Somehow.”
“Not necessary.”
“Of course it’s necessary. This property is worth millions. I’m not freeloading.”
He poured himself a water from his fancy water filter tap. “Call it what you want.” Then he took a long drink, his throat working—and I glutted myself on the visual of his gym-toned body.
Three years ago, I wouldn’t have thought Johnny O’Reilly could get any hotter.
I was wrong.
He’d been doing some seriously intense workouts or something, because over time he’d somehow upgraded from super-hot-older-brother-of-my-best-friend to handed-over-his-eternal-soul-to-Satan-in-exchange-for-that-physique. I could see an alluring vein running down his groin, disappearing under the towel that now swathed his hips, toward the bulge in the front. I could see his abs flexing as he swallowed. I could see his flushed pink nipples.
He really needed to put on some clothes. Or maybe never wear clothes again.
I tried to look him in the eye and only in the eye as he finished drinking and looked at me again.
“It’s called freeloading,” I repeated.
“So? Then pay some rent.”
“I mean, I would, if I could.”
