My brainwaves flat lined. You can’t blame me––that face is a goddamn murderer of gray matter. It’s flawless in a way that renders one incapable of doing anything other than staring mouth agape. I catch myself doing it all the time, searching for a small bump, a tiny scar, an angle that’s too steep or wide. And yet nothing, I can’t seem to find a single one. Which aggravates me to no end. Which means I usually end up inadvertently glowering at him.

In my line of work, pretty boys are as common as flies on dog excrement. They’ve never been of any particular interest to me. I place them in the same category as exotic cars––typically useless and generally time consuming because someone’s always trying to jack them. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when somewhere in the background a harp began to play, butterflies took flight in my gut, and a rainbow came shooting out of my…well, you get the picture.

I gravitate toward shy, creative types. Types that don’t reduce my attention span to that of a gnat because I suddenly develop the libido of a teenage boy. Who needs that kind of headache day in and day out? I’ve got shit to do. My laundry keeps piling up. My refrigerator hasn’t been cleaned in a month. However, I will admit that if eyes had the ability to orgasm, mine would have that day.

So there I was, standing in my doorway drunk on lust. Until he smiled at me. That counterfeit smile rubbed me the wrong way. An ice bucket over my head, no challenge included. Still in the midst of healing from the third degree burn of my latest bout with Love, I swiftly remembered that men were on par with Ebola, and all the reasons I vowed to stay away from humans with a penis for a brain returned with a vengeance. I glared, the smile fell off his pretty face, soon replaced by confusion, and the rest is history.

Since then, reshaping this reluctant attraction into indifference lightly garnished with a touch of resentment has been incredibly easy. And that’s where I firmly stood on the matter––until now. Whether by choice or coercion, he’s the only reason I am not a ward of the great state of New York. Now there’s a heavy load of gratitude standing in the way of my resentment.

“Fancy.” Nothing. Though I detect a very faint snore. Nice to know he’s human; I was beginning to have my doubts. I get closer. “Vaughn,” I say, a little louder this time. Still nothing. I hover over him, much closer than I’m comfortable with. The other choice is to touch him and I reeaally don’t want to do that.

A whiff of his man aroma hits me and my eyelids get a little droopy. It’s like stepping into an opium cloud, dangerously addictive. I stay there for a solid five minutes sniffing and sniffing, trying to ferret out what it is that’s making me mental. His eyes slam open and meet mine.

Woops. Busted.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of a turn-of-the-century limestone townhouse on the Upper East Side, one block from Central Park. Calling it impressive would be equivalent to me saying Ryan Reynolds has a pretty good body. In other words, woefully understated. There’s money, and then there’s Money. This is the latter.

“Did you neglect to tell me you’re related to the House of Windsor?”

“Norma gave it to me,” he absently answers while retrieving his keys from his jacket pocket. Loaded down with my suitcases, he trudges up the stairs to an elaborate wrought iron door.

“Didn’t peg you as the kept man type.”

His body goes rigid while his face adopts an expression of disgust. “Norma Ellington is my grandmother.”

“Ellington? Ellington as in the real estate company?” The name plastered on every building that isn’t named Trump in this city.

“Hmm.”

He unlocks the iron door and we step into a vestibule. “What, no butler to greet us?” My quip goes ignored. Next, the carved mahogany door swings open.

I cannot contain my surprise. Mouth gapping open, I am rendered speechless, which is close to impossible. I’m seldom surprised so this at least makes sense. What does not make sense is what I’m presently staring at.

“It’s The Money Pit. You’re living in The Money Pit.” Stepping further inside, Vaughn right behind me, I look around, my eyes not quite sure what part of this wreck to settle on first. “Is the staircase safe to walk on?”

It looks like a demolition crew took out half of it while the rest is in a state of serious disrepair. The few pieces of furniture that are present don’t seem to fit, the style ultra contemporary.

“I just hired a new contractor. I hadn’t planned on a houseguest.” While I stand there mesmerized, he walks past me. “Stay out of the living room, dining room, and…” He exhales tiredly, his broad shoulders dropping. “Better yet, don’t go anywhere other than the kitchen and bedrooms.” Without a backward glance, he begins to climb the stairs. “Stairs are fine––as you can see.”

Tags: P. Dangelico Hard to Love Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net