“I'm paying for it, Anthony.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Anthony,” I say, crooking my finger, “come here for a second.”
Amusing me, he leans in, angling his ear in my direction.
“I literally have enough money to clothe and shelter my own private army. I chose you because you're the only one who actually makes me feel safe. This isn't charity. This is expedience. Let's go in and get the fucking clothes so we can get to the heliport on time, shall we? I made the arrangements while you were busting my balls,” I say, jiggling my phone at him.
He grumbles but lets me lead him into the store.
Picking up a pair of gorgeous darker blue jeans, he shakes his head. “I have never paid so much for a pair of jeans in my entire life.”
“And you still haven’t because I’m buying them. They’ll look amazing on your ass.”
The store manager comes up to us, and I have him set aside a changing room. Anthony finds a few basics, and I feather his choices with selfish details of my own. I’m especially proud of the carbon black suit I pick out—I’ll have it tailored for him when we get back into town, but it’s damn near perfect off the rack.
He complains but agrees to put it on so we can see the fit. My jaw drops when he walks out.
Looking down at the tag, he immediately starts taking off the jacket. I touch his arm. “That’s perfect on you, Anthony. The fit is fire.”
“There’s no way I’m letting you buy this for me.”
I can’t hear his objections over the ripeness of his ass. And God, the depth of the black brings out the cerulean in his eyes.
“Shut up, Anthony. If I have to listen to some asshole drone on about how the human rights violations in the production facilities aren’t that big a deal, I at least deserve a good view.”
“You said I wouldn’t be able to get in.”
“Just in case.”
“No, Mads. I’m putting my foot down. The price is extortion,” he says, glaring at the manager.
I catch the manager’s eye, and we both fan ourselves.
“I said shut up. It's on sale, and the fit is crazy good.”
He looks thoroughly frustrated but hands the manager his choices along with the suit. I slip my additions on the pile when he’s not looking, and—because fuck him—I buy him a beautiful carry-on suitcase with all the extras. It’s worth it to see exactly how red his face can get.
The shop owner agrees to deliver everything to my building within the hour.
Since we’ll be stuck on a jet for umpteen hours, I insist on walking back to my building. Anthony complains, of course, but then makes me walk closer to the building so he can crowd around me again. His long legs keep brushing mine.
This reminds me that I need to cancel my escort for tonight and download my favorite possessive mobster book to my phone for the flight.
We get to my place, and he gifts me with the world’s tiniest smile when I let myself in with the retinal scanner. I toe off my shoes and am charmed when Anthony follows suit. We say hi to my security detail and let the driver know we’ll be going to the heliport.
Anthony trails behind me as we pad up the stairs to the top floor. “Don’t you have an elevator?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you ever use it?”
“Sometimes. When I’m drunk.”
I’ve focused ahead, but one must assume that the cursing and muttering behind me is accompanied by one of his patented disappointed head shakes. Heh. It’s hard to take him seriously now that I know he wears the same Gold Toe socks my dad wears.
We pass the den on the second floor, the kitchen and dining-slash-defense-training area on the third, and the guest rooms on the fourth. But the fifth floor? That is the primary suite, and it’s where I live. In addition to a soaring high ceiling and a criminally large bed, I’ve got a wall of books—with a library ladder, thankyouverymuch—a seating area with beautifully kept greenery, and a rooftop deck with a view of the river.