Page 12 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

Chapter Four

What part of one-night stand did this guy not get?

Brooke’s steps slowed as she approached her apartment door. Eli lounged against the frame, balancing two paper cups that bore the logo of the coffee shop on the next block.

She’d successfully avoided running into him for two full days since he crashed the tenants’ meeting. No small feat considering he lived down the hall, his door only a few feet from hers.

It helped that she hadn’t had to go to work at the bar. She’d asked for some time off and spent it chained to her drafting table, trying to meet a self-imposed deadline. Maybe this would be the year she finally sold her novel. The year her father finally saw her as more than a flighty dreamer who spent her days doodling and her nights doling out alcohol.

Eli held one of the cups out to her, looking hotter than any man had a right to in tight jeans and a Metallica T-shirt. More casual than his usual GQ style, but it totally worked on him. Of course, he’d probably look as mouth-watering in a burlap sack. He was the kind of guy who could wear pretty much anything well. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” she asked, feigning ignorance. She took the cup from his outstretched hand and sipped. Hot, strong, and dark, just the way she liked it. Apparently mind reading was one of Eli’s many skills, along with charming his way into month-to-month leases and giving world-class orgasms.

“You sure you want to get into it out here?” He glanced at Charise’s door.

Damn. He had a point. As much as she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him in the close quarters of her studio apartment without jumping his bones, she didn’t want all of Candy Court knowing the intimate details of her until recently nonexistent sex life.

“Fine.” She juggled the coffee cup in one hand and dug her keys out of her purse with the other. “You can come in. But only for a few minutes. I’ve got work to do.”

She opened the door, and he followed her in. “Charise says you’re some sort of cartoonist.”

“Graphic novelist,” Brooke corrected, tossing her pocketbook onto an overstuffed chair and stripping off her coat. “And Charise has a big mouth.”

“Graphic novels, eh? You mean like comic books?”

Eli made himself right at home, lowering himself onto the couch with an easy grace befitting a man of leisure or a member of the British royal family. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly who this guy was and what he did for a living, then she smacked down the flicker of curiosity. It didn’t matter who he was or how the hell he made ends meet, because she was not—repeat,not—getting involved with him. Relationships were for other people, ones who wanted stuff like marriage. Kids. A brick colonial with a picket fence and two rowdy Labs with a special fondness for the mailman. Things that weren’t even glimmers on her horizon.

She had a five-year plan—get an agent and a multi-book contract so she could quit tending bar to write and draw full-time. She’d accomplished the first, signing with her agent shortly before Christmas, but she was still working on numbers two and three. And she wasn’t going to let any man, no matter how panty-meltingly gorgeous he was, steer her off track. No way, no how. She’d learned from her mother’s mistakes.

“No, I don’t mean like comic books.” Brooke slammed her cup down on the counter with more force than necessary, sloshing coffee on the red-brown granite. “Graphic novels are a lot longer, with more complex plots.”

Eli held his palms out in surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Apology accepted.” She grabbed a sponge from the sink and mopped up her mess, more to cover how guilty she felt for snapping at him than from any burning desire to clean. She had a hard time remembering that not every question about her career was a dig, and not every man her judgmental father. “But I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about my work, did you?”

“You guess right.” He patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit down.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks.

He folded his arms. “I’m not talking to you from across the room.”

She lobbed the sponge into the sink and leaned back against the counter. “Then I guess you’re not talking.”

“If Mohammad won’t come to the mountain…” He stood and took a step toward her.

She raised a hand. “Stop right there.”

“I don’t think so.” Step.

“I mean it.” She stuck her hand out farther.

“So do I.” Step.

“Not an inch more.”

Step. “Too late.”

He held her gaze as he put a hand on her outstretched arm, slowly lowering it.