Page 4 of Insatiable Bachelor (Bachelor Tower 1)
I don’t argue my way into a woman’s bed. I don’t need to. This will happen eventually, even if Penny is not down for tonight. I know it won’t be long. “The code for the fire alarm is in the blue folder, in case it happens again. And have you started going through the checklist? They’re sticklers around here.”
“That damn checklist,” she growls, and my dick approves of her sexy, angered tone. Some people say they like Mexican food but order it mild. That’s not me. I like it hot. The same goes for fucking. I don’t mind an angry romp in the sack, and I’m picturing one now as she continues her rant.
“This place is absolutely insane. They want me to change out the HEPA filters in the apartment? I have to ensure my garbage meets all the standards of biodegradability? Why in the world would I need to have the window treatments and curtains no later than one week after arrival? The list goes on and on.”
“They don’t mean you have to do those things. Doesn’t your sister have an assistant or a team? I never touch a thing in my place, and it all gets done.”
“Kylie refuses to depend on anyone. She doesn’t trust people, and she’s never satisfied unless she does things herself.”
Interesting. “But you’re setting the apartment up for her?”
Penny makes a pained face. “The trip to China came out of nowhere or I wouldn’t be here.”
“So you’re not staying after she returns?” That would be a clear breach of contract. A loophole to get them out even faster. I’m not a cruel asshole. I just know damn well I can’t have a woman like this on the other side of my bedroom wall.
The outcome is inevitable, though. Neither will be here long. Kylie chose the wrong person for this task, but it’s not my fucking place to say it. Penny is too honest, too open.
“I have my own place,” she replies, jutting her chin out proudly. “Well, it’s not my own place really. It’s a studio apartment in the Art District that I share with two other girls.”
Is she trying to turn me on? Doesn’t she know that the media has been feeding men wild images of what women do when they’re together in tight quarters? What healthy male doesn’t instantly fantasize about such a place? “How do you share a studio apartment?”
“It’s a schedule. We work different shifts, and we make sure we’re never there at the same time. It’s basically like living alone except sometimes there’s a mysterious bowl of cereal in the sink.”
Not quite my X-rated version. “So staying here for several weeks must be nice for you.” I sit on the couch and cross my legs, getting comfortable.
“Not really,” she says flatly and doesn’t take a seat beside me. That’s not good. “Thank you for helping with the alarm.” There’s a finality in her voice that can’t be mistaken.
I’m being brushed off, asked to leave. That never happens. I take a moment to soak it in.
The door we left slightly ajar flies open and the kitchen staff rolls in a cart of food that looks like it’s been prepared for royalty. A vase of fresh flowers towers in the middle surrounded by my favorite tapas. It’s an eclectic mix from various regions. There’s vegan options and something for meat lovers. This is what I order when I fuck a woman so hard and so long that I feel compelled to offer her some nourishment afterward. I don’t like to ask my exhausted fuck friend what she likes to eat, so this meal closes that door. I’ve made the mistake of asking women for their favorite food. They took it as an invitation to tell me about the allergic reaction they had to some shit they ate at twelve years old. I prefer to imply rather than to state I don’t fucking care, so I keep questions to a minimum. Here’s your food. Don’t choke on it.
“Mr. Croft, should I set it here?” He looks from Penny to me, and I know what he’s thinking—I’m feeding her first. This is a change.
I shrug, not committing either way.
“There’s been a mistake,” Penny replies after a few beats. “He’ll take it next door.”
The man’s eyebrows fly to his hairline, and he turns my way. “Sir?”
If she wasn’t already running naked through my mind, I’d say she wasn’t worth this, but she’s throwing down a challenge, and it’s actually more exciting than how I’d imagined the evening going. It’s not that I don’t want to stay; if all I wanted was a quick fuck, I could get it downstairs. This is a game I’m ready to play.
“Leave the food but bill me.” I stand and smile as he nods and leaves.
Penny walks to the door and holds it open. “Thanks again,” she says but hardly looks convincing.
I cock an eyebrow at her and grin in that way that usually pulls a woman to me from across a crowded bar. “Anytime, Penny.” She resists my charm, but I can tell it’s with a good amount of effort. I walk to the door, stopping in front of her. Damn, does she know how potent she is? She must.
“If you need me, you know where I am.” I step out of her apartment, still with a spring in my step.
She moves to close the door then stops. “Dalton.”
Half of me wants her to ask me to stay. Half would be disappointed if she does. I want the game to go on longer. “Yes?”
“You can tell your friends that my sister isn’t going anywhere. When she wants something, she gets it, and she wants this.”
“This building is full of men who live the same way. She won’t win.”
“My money is on her.”
“Then this should be an interesting couple of weeks.”
“Good night, Mr. Croft.” She closes the door in my face.
“Good night, Penny,” I say to the door, but I’m smiling. I turn and catch a guy from down the hall watching me. My smile fades, and I give him a look only another man would understand. It’s the equivalent of pissing on her door to mark this territory as mine—because it is.
CHAPTER FIVE
Penny
Kicking Dalton Croft out was equal parts exhilarating and deflating. His ego was expanding by the second, and the best thing I could do was toss him out. But damn if I didn’t miss looking at him the second the door closed between us.
Principles be damned. I dug into a vegan option. Its presence was evidence of a thread of compassion in him—even if he kept it hidden beneath layers and layers of assholery.
I wondered what Kylie would think of him. On paper I bet they have a lot in common. Like her, he thinks I’m not capable of holding down this apartment. I saw it in his eyes. Right in the middle of several I’d fuck you right now looks there’d been a glimmer of—pity? Or am I just tired and seeing my entire life in the eyes of a man who normally wouldn’t give me a second look? It’s been a long exhausting day of walking dogs, teaching back-to-back yoga classes, and running across town to check on my dad.
I don’t need Dalton to believe in me. I can do this.
I work my way through some of the non-vegan dishes. I’m not anti-meat, but I try to keep my lifestyle healthy and my negative impact on the planet to a minimum. Throwing this food away, however, would be an empty gesture, and I’m not into those either.
My phone starts ringing and I nearly ignore it because I don’t want to pull myself away from the tray of calamaries.
“Hi, Millie,” I say through a mouthful of food while pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Hey girl, how is it?” Millie is buzzing with excitement, and I love that about her. The moment she knew I’d be staying in this apartment she was ready to throw a party. She’s all about any excuse to bake a cake and blow up balloons. Far too few adults have the level of joy and energy that Millie seems to wake up with every day. We’ve been roommates for two years, and I’ve never tired of it.
“It’s going all right,” I say, not wanting to admit the way I just devoured some of the most extravagant food I’ve ever seen. Millie, Sarah, and I live the humble lives of starving creative souls. Somehow we manage to scrape together enough money for our outrageous rent every month, because living in the city is where we all want to be. I may one day seek the quiet of the country, but
for now I like having museums, cultural events, and political rallies all within walking distance. I like to stay involved, and I enjoy meeting new people too much to want to live anywhere else yet. There’s an energy to Boston, a feeling that people actually can make a difference, and I like to think I do my part.
My sister tosses around the words wasted potential nearly every time we talk. She doesn’t approve that I spend more time fundraising for backpacks for children in foster care than I do networking. I don’t need more or different clients. I like the people I work with and for, and I like my life. My happy doesn’t have to be Kylie’s happy.
