Distraction
Page 16

“Sven,” His body leans even closer to me as he snarls, “Now.”
“Sheesh, fine.” I take a deep breath and let it out then tell him about hearing someone at the door and thinking that my sister was home but that she lost her key. Then I tell him about the guys breaking in and the police showing up. I only stop talking when I tell him that I stayed at a hotel last night and he roars.
“You didn’t call me?”
“I knew you were probably busy.” I shrug, trying to make it seem like it’s not a big deal.
“I wasn’t. Goddammit, Mags! You should have fucking called me.” He paces back and forth in front of the desk then goes to the window behind me and looks out over the club. “You’re staying with me until your sister cleans her fucking mess up.”
“N… No, I’m not,” I choke out in distress at the idea.
“You are, and if you even think about going anywhere but my penthouse, I will track your ass down and drag you back with me.”
“Sven, don’t be stupid.” His penthouse is nice, really nice, but it only has one bedroom, and his couch isn’t even one you would want to sleep on if left with no choice. It’s modern and edgy, but in no way does it say ‘come sleep on me’.
“Do we need to go to your place to get some stuff?” he asks, ignoring me.
“I’m not staying with you,” I repeat.
“You are,” he says, storming out of his office. Digging my compact out of my bag, I look at myself in the mirror. I thought I had done a good job covering up the bruises, but apparently I hadn’t.
“Mags.”
“What?” I huff, looking up from the computer once more when he storms back into the office.
“Get up. We’re meeting with a realtor in thirty minutes.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re right. My place now doesn’t really have space,” he grits out as he walks over to the bathroom and shuts the door halfway then continues talking through the small gap. “We’re going to look at a few houses,” he says, and I can hear him flush then the water turn on before the door opens and he steps out. “Do you need anything before we head out?”
“Are you crazy?” I ask, frowning and standing from the chair I’m sitting in.
“Nope,” he denies, walking toward me. Taking my elbow, he stops at the door and grabs my bag then pulls me with him out of his office, down the stairs, and through the club. He then leads me to his SUV and sets me inside, yelling for me to put my belt on as he slams the door.
“Put your seatbelt on,” I mimic under my breath as I slide it around me, locking it in place.
CROSSING MY ARMS over my chest, I glare out the windshield. Five hours ago, we met up with a guy named Don, who I learned moments after meeting him was a realtor. Don seems like a nice enough guy, but since meeting up with him, we have seen ten houses—okay, not houses, mansions—and now we’re on our way to view another.
“You haven’t even attempted to appreciate any of them,” Sven grumbles, and I turn my head and transfer my glare to him.
“Do you know how crazy it is to buy a house that you don’t even want?” I ask, really wondering if he understands how ridiculous this is.
“I want a house,” he says, shifting in his seat, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
“For what, Sven?” I ask, holding up my hand and ticking off my fingers one at a time. “You’re single, you don’t have a wife or kids, and you don’t need more space.” I sigh, placing my hand back in my lap. “You’re talking about spending millions of dollars just so I have a room to sleep in for a few days. That is the definition of crazy.”
“Do you want to sleep in my bed with me?” he asks, and this time it’s me who shifts uncomfortably. If I was to ever be honest with myself, I would like to sleep next to him, but what red-blooded woman wouldn’t want that?
“Let’s just go buy a comfortable couch if it’s that important to you, and I’ll sleep on it,” I tell him, but then stop talking altogether when we pull down a street with kids outside playing on sidewalks and front laws, and families talking and visiting with their neighbors. Spotting a for sale sign in one of the yards, I feel a smile on my face for the first time in hours. The two-story terracotta stone house with curved windows and doors, and a wooden shingle roof, looks like something out of a fairy tale and is my dream home.
“You like that house?”
Looking from the house to Sven, a feeling of disappointment hits me as we drive past it. “It’s a cute house,” I murmur, looking over my shoulder one more time as he turns onto another road then another until we’re pulling up in front of a house that looks like all the others we have seen today.
Completely atrocious.
“Wait here.” Getting out of the car, he walks toward Don, who is standing on the front porch. They talk for a brief moment before Sven walks back toward me.
“What’s going on?” I ask when he gets in behind the wheel.
“We’re skipping this one,” he mutters, looking over his shoulder to the street behind us.
“Bummer,” I say sarcastically, watching as his lips twitch as he backs out of the driveway. Looking out the window, I realize we are heading back toward the neighborhood we drove through earlier, and when we pull into the driveway of the terracotta house, I sit up a little taller in my seat.
“You like this house?” he asks, surprised, looking at the house in front of us. It’s not a mansion, but it is a really beautiful house in the perfect little neighborhood. The kind of house I wish I had grown up in.
“Some people strive for normal,” I say, getting out of the car and walking through the thick grass in the front yard then up to the large bay window, where I put my hands to the glass and press my forehead close so I can see inside.
“Mags, you don’t need to peep through the window. We’re going to go inside,” Sven says, and I feel his warmth at my back and his fingers curve around my waist.
“You want to view this house?” I ask doubtfully.
Ignoring my question, he pulls me from the window and leads me toward the front of the house, where Don is unlocking the box attached to the door handle. Pushing the door open, he motions for us to go inside. The moment I step into the foyer, I’m in awe. It’s beautiful, with high ceilings and natural light. To the left is a large library, and the right, a sunken living room with comfortable couches that make you want to kick off your shoes, grab a book, and hang out awhile. The kitchen is in the back of the house, with a long island, and a breakfast nook that is surrounded by windows. Upstairs are five bedrooms, including a master with a walk-in closet and a bathroom bigger than my bedroom at home, plus a bonus room the pervious owners set up like a theater.
“You’d be happy in a house like this, wouldn’t you?” Sven asks, and his eyes go from where he’s looking outside to sweeping over me as he shakes his head. “Most women want bigger, Mags, and then there’s you.”
“I don’t want to be like most women,” I tell him, feeling like I need to defend myself.
“I know,” he says quietly, stepping away from the window and coming to stand in front of me. “I fucking hate these bruises.” He whispers running his eyes over them before meeting my gaze again. Looking into his eyes, my body leans into his as his fingers wrap around my jaw and his lips touch my forehead in a spot that I’ve decided is his. Closing my eyes, I only open them back up when I hear his voice in the distance yell, “Come on, Mags. We have a house to buy.”