Chapter Thirteen
While I was upstairs with Collin, a package arrived for Melanie. A hard-case consisting of both our laptops, two new cell phones, and some of our most reliable gadgets. That damn Melanie.
Suspicious—and I would be disappointed if they weren’t—the team took our devices apart and checked them for bugs. Once satisfied, they were pieced back together and Eduardo and Kavon retired to their rooms. Collin got dressed and left to go see his friend, Simone. And Melanie successfully convinced Jo to let her room with her.
Now, at minutes to eleven, I sit alone in the living room with the TV on and boxes of new clothes surrounding me.
With nothing to do and no one to talk to, I log into my computer and check my emails. My inbox is inundated with new proposals from companies I’ve done contract jobs for around the world. Emails of this nature I always just relocate to my overflowing folder called Alternatives.
There are three emails from my sister checking up on my well-being and whereabouts, each one more pressing than the last. I hit reply and type up a quick but reassuring email.
Just as I hit send, I feel a brush of heat at the back of neck.
Jaxon has entered the room.
Slamming my laptop shut, I twist around on the sofa and find him leaning against one of the big columns, his focus on me.
“Hi,” I say with an awkward wave.
He doesn’t return the wave. “You plan on letting me back into my account?”
I tsk. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you let me choose what side of the bed will be mine.”
His head dips, and I think I glimpse something like a smile, but it’s possible I imagined it, because when he lifts his head again, his usual non-expression is firmly in place.
He strides across the room and stacks my boxes, one on top of the other, into two sets. He picks up the first set. “Come on.”
When I stand and make to pick up the second set, he stops me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll come back for those. Just get your laptop.”
I’m surprised by this. Because it’s kind of…nice. Almost gentlemanly. Not what I was expecting.
Picking up my laptop and cell phone, I follow where he leads. We go down the long hall, enter his office, then make an oblique left.
There’s a red door. One I apparently missed the first two times I was in here.
He nudges it open with the side of his body so he can get through with the boxes.
Jaxon’s bedroom.
In contrast to Collin’s put-together room, Jaxon’s room is twice the size and, well, surprisingly boyish. First off, a huge batman mask is mounted to the wall over his headboard. To the left of his closet doors stands a life-size Star Wars Stormtrooper statue. Framed comics are scattered on the walls all around the room. Two Hulk hands sit atop a chest of drawers. To the right of another red door that I assume leads to an en suite bathroom, is a life-size statue of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
I’m a little lost for words.
I feel like I shouldn’t be here. It all feels so…personal. Like the kind of room a grown man would be mortified to let a woman see. Things he would throw sheets and towels over so people wouldn’t think him a geek. No wonder he never lets anyone in here.
So, why would he let me in? Why would he let me see it all?
Is it because I’m an even bigger geek?
Except, I’m not this kind of geek. I don’t read comics or watch Star Wars. I’m a facts geek. I get hot over theories and documentaries. I like learning how things work, the truths of the world, real life lessons. Therefore, I’m über-selective about the kind of fiction I read when I want to shut my brain off. And comics are most assuredly not in that pool.
Where I’m a reality nerd, Jaxon is a fantasy nerd.
“I’m not a geek,” he mutters to the room as he heads toward the closet.
I ask his back, “Is this your room?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a geek.”
“Not gonna defend myself to you,” he returns. “Come here.”
I go there.
His chin jerks to the closet door, a wordless request to open it for him.
When I do, he walks in and deposits the boxes on the floor.
It’s a huge space. Multiple racks and shelves hold different shades of suits and trousers and sweaters and denims—the usual things one would find in a closet. And while I’d like to say, “Nothing new here,” I can’t, because a wide rack at the back, along with a few shelves above it, hold all kinds of getups and disguises—legit uniforms, ranging from police to firemen to security guards. Lab coats, scrubs, and army camo. Masks and wigs.
Welcome to the closet of a pro con.
It both thrills and scares me.
He waves a hand to a section of empty shelves beside a full-length mirror. “You can use these. I also emptied the two top drawers of the dresser for you.”
Okay. He’d emptied a drawer and cleared closet shelves for me. Which proves how sure he’d been that I would choose to room with him.
Should I call it arrogance…or should I melt?
Instead, something niggles at the back of my mind.
Why is he letting me in like this? Where is the caution? The mistrust? The suspicion that should be there?
I don’t like this. I don’t trust it. Of all the men in the world, why did I have to choose the bed of a faker who is about to do nothing but mess with my head?
“Beneath the Hulk’s hands?” I turn to him. “What if he rips all my knickers?”
His blink is a slow, lazy one. “Then I guess you’ll be sleeping panty-less under my sheets.”
A-n-nd there it goes again, the burning blush from my ears to my toes.
I take a leisurely minute to imagine myself panty-less under Jaxon sheets. Maybe while wearing the lab coat from his closet. Unbuttoned.
Bloody hell. Since when did my brain deem it appropriate to formulate these kind of risqué thoughts?
“I’ll just, uh—” I clear my throat. “Um…unpack these and…”
But he’s already out of the closet, on his way out of the room.
A few minutes later, he returns with the last set of boxes. But he doesn’t bring them into the closet. He deposits them in front of the chest of drawers. Those are the boxes with my undergarments, and apparently he’s aware of that. Which means he went through them before he brought them.
Pervert.
I refocus on unpacking.
“Clean towels and washcloths are in the bathroom,” he calls. “New toothbrushes and floss are in the bottom cabinet. Heading out. Be back in a bit.”
I instinctively ask, “Where are you going?”
A pause. “To get something to eat.”
Why does he always go out to eat? I’ve noticed that everyone else eats here when Kavon cooks, except Jaxon. Does he think he’s better than us? An Upstairs, Downstairs thing?
I kick an empty box aside and start on another one. “Mel cooked, you know. There’s plenty.”
A longer pause. “I’m vegan.”
Oh. Well, that clears things up. “Do you really trust me enough to leave me in your room unattended?”
“I don’t.” I hear movements, something rustling. I don’t look. “But I do know you aren’t stupid.”
The words are said in the most benign tone, but I can literally feel the threat emanating through them like steam. He’s letting me know I’d be stupid to attempt anything.
Ha. What he calls stupid, I call brave and daring.
Arching backward a little, I peek out the closet door.
He’s gone.
Every fool knows you never start snooping on the first moment of trust handed to you. Not when doubts and suspicions still levitate like germs in the air. You will walk right into a trap.
Clearly, he does think I’m that stupid.