14. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Devon

I hate to admit how well I sleep in this bed. How the hell does he have such a soft mattress? All night I felt like I was being cuddled by it, and I got the best sleep I’ve had in a while. Or maybe that was due to how tired I was and all the food I ate before going to sleep.

I lift my head, knowing something woke me. I’m too groggy to have woken up on my own, but looking around the room, I don’t see anything out of place. My phone isn’t ringing, and when I tap the screen, I don’t see a missed call. The door is closed, still locked—did someone knock?

“Hello?” I call out, but don’t get a response.

If I didn’t have to pee so badly, I’d go back to sleep. After almost choking on a peanut butter sandwich last night, I went back downstairs for a drink and thought chugging two bottles of water before crawling into bed was a good idea. Probably would have felt better if they were bottles of wine, but I’d be kicking myself in the ass for it now .

I get up, feeling gross for still being in my dress and lingerie from yesterday. I go right for the door and nearly trip on the basket outside of it.

I knew something woke me.

It’s an old-fashioned wicker laundry basket. There are neatly folded clothes inside with a note on top. I pick that up first and read it.

Thought you may need some things.

-Tatum

I shove the basket into the room and hurry to the bathroom before I pee all over the floor. Which I wouldn’t feel guilty about, but I don’t need to give him more ammo to tease me with. When I’m back in the room, I dig through the basket, happy to find clothes in my size, everything I’ll need for a shower, and a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Well, at least he’s being nice for a change. He could have left me here all weekend with nothing. That would have been horrible—for both of us, because I’d likely stink to the high heavens.

When I dig through the clothes to find something to wear, the first thing I notice is how they aren’t exactly my style. There are sweat pants, leggings, tank tops, and t-shirts. Things I usually do wear, but… different. I’m not complaining because they all look comfortable, but he did this on purpose. There isn’t a single pair of panties or a bra. Either because he doesn’t know my size or he’s just being an asshole .

But that’s fine. If he wants to be an asshole, I can be an asshole too.

He specifically told me he doesn’t want to have sex with me? Good. Then he won’t mind me walking around with these clothes—maybe a little altered—and no bra.

I pull out the pair of maroon sweats and the white t-shirt, then get to work fixing what I need which isn’t too difficult without scissors. When I’m done, I grab everything I need for a shower and head to the bathroom down the hall.

Showered and changed, I’m on my way back to my room, but hear voices downstairs so I stop. One is Tatum’s and the other I don’t recognize, which is perfect. He can show me how much he doesn’t want to have sex with me in front of whoever it is that’s here. Maybe whoever he’s with will want to have sex with me, and I can piss Tatum off even more. Because let’s be serious; he can hate me as much as he wants, but the second someone gives me attention, he gets really possessive.

Leaving my hair up in an extremely messy bun—because I didn’t want to wash it—I head downstairs and go right to the kitchen, which is where the voices are coming from.

Though it’s an open concept, the kitchen is on the other side of the wall that the floating stairs are connected to, so I can’t see in there until I reach the bottom. Awful design, if you ask me.

I’m disappointed when I find him cooking something on the stove, his lit-up cell on the counter beside him, showing he’s on a call. I stop at the end of the island that’s placed in the center of the kitchen and between us. There is no table and chairs that I can see, so I assume this is where he sits to eat.

Oh, is he working ?

This could be fun.

“Making anything good?” I say cheerily.

He whips his head in my direction, his brows furrowed. His gaze goes from my face, to my boobs, to my exposed abdomen, back to my face. He frowns.

“I’ll call you back,” he grits out, stabbing the end button on his phone before turning toward me. “That isn’t what I bought you.”

“Of course it is,” I say, smiling sweetly and doing a little spin for him to see. “I just made it more… me .”

I hop onto the stool in front of the island, cross my arms and take a deep breath. It’s possible I cut this shirt a little too short… I think the underside of my boobs are showing— oops .

He scoffs and turns back to the stove. I try to look around him to see what he’s making, but I can’t see. Not that it matters because I’m sure his kindness for the day ended at buying me clothes. Sucks because it smells good—and breakfast is my favorite meal.

I’m surprised, so much so that I almost fall off the stool, when he puts a plate in front of me, then another beside me.

“Coffee?” he asks, sounding almost normal.

I slowly look up from my plate to see him standing on the other side of the island, staring at me as he waits for an answer. He’s in a white t-shirt that hugs every muscled curve of his torso. He’s always had such nice arms. Toned. Strong. His shoulders are broad, and there’s just something about broad shoulders that—

“Devon,” he grits out .

“Yes, coffee,” I say in a small voice, bringing my attention to the plate in front of me.

It’s a broccoli and cheddar omelet… my favorite.

Must be a coincidence. There’s no way he made my favorite breakfast on purpose. And yes, I know that’s a random thing to have as a favorite breakfast, but what can I say?

He puts down a wide mug of coffee in front of me, then goes to the fridge.

“There’s milk and sugar or that gross flavored creamer shit.”

“If you don’t like the gross flavored creamer shit , why do you have it in your house?”

He doesn’t bother to answer me, just pulls it out and puts it down in front of me. Hazelnut. Yum ! I pour a splash into my cup.

He takes his own cup of coffee—black—and puts it by the other plate, then hops on the stool beside me and eats… as if this is all normal.

I glare for far too long, not sure why he wants to sit beside me when he has this whole house to be in. Don’t have a clue why he made me breakfast or got me coffee, either.

“Eat,” he says between bites. I watch him for a moment longer, not understanding what is happening here.

Why is he being nice? This has to be a trick. He’s messing with me on purpose. Nothing else makes sense.

I’m too tired to think about any of it right now, so I focus on eating instead. It’s not like I can ignore my favorite breakfast food.

It’s simple but delicious. I eat all of it before I take a sip of my coffee that is now closer to cold than hot .

Tatum takes our plates to the sink and washes them when we’re done eating.

“If you’d be so kind as to return my peanut butter, I need it for a smoothie,” he says.

“How do you know I took it?” I ask smartly.

“Because we’re the only two people here, Devon, and it’s missing.”

I guzzle the rest of my coffee and slam the mug down.

“You going to tell me why that is?” I demand.

Oops again. I didn’t mean to say that so loudly.

“Why what is?” he asks, sounding tired as if I’ve asked this question a thousand times.

“Don’t be stupid, Tatum. Why I’m here.”

“Are you going to have a normal conversation about it?” he asks patiently, glancing over his shoulder.

“No. I don’t want to have a conversation with you at all. I want you to tell me why the hell you paid three and a half million dollars for me!”

My heart is pounding, and once again, he managed to get me so angry I can’t see straight. I don’t know how he does it, but I hate him for it.

He shuts the water off and grabs the towel to wipe his hands as turns to face me. There isn’t a thing on his face that shows he cares I’m so worked up. He’s so put together. How the hell does he do it?

Holding my gaze, silence falls over us. As I wait for him to answer me, I realize I’m not sure what I want his answer to be.

Do I want it to be revenge? An apology? Saving me from other men? They’re all bad, so which is the lesser evil?

Tatum sighs, running a hand over his hair. It’s curling at the tips, which is usually when he gets a haircut. He hates his curls—I’ve always loved them. I swear it’s why he cuts his hair so short now.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he finally says.

“Try me,” I grit out.

He opens his mouth, but his phone rings and he snaps it shut.

“That’s what I thought,” I say, getting up from the stool to go back to my room. Before I close and lock the door, I whip his peanut butter down the stairs. I smile when I hear it shatter against the floor.

That’s going to be a bitch to clean up.