Maybe I shouldn’t look forward to that. I sure as fuck shouldn’t already be considering how quickly I can get my hands on her again. I have to be better than this. For our scheme to work, neither of us can afford to be distracted.
Psyche steps into my home and whistles. “You really went full-on millionaire playboy when you decorated this, didn’t you? How crass.”
The cloud of lust around my head dissipates a little. I try to see my penthouse from her point of view. It’s filled with expensive things, yes, but so is her mother’s home, I’d wager. “What’s wrong with it?”
Her lips quirk and she sweeps a hand to encompass the entire room. “How narcissistic do you have to be to have a hexagon-shaped foyer with mirrors on every single wall?”
“They’re not on every wall. Just four of them.” The other two house the door to the elevator and the door leading deeper into the penthouse. My skin heats, and it’s not desire to blame this time. “My mother feels strongly about making a first impression.”
“More like your mother enjoys being the center of attention, even if she’s the only one in the room.” She says it with a straight face. Before I can come up with a response, Psyche moves to the nearest mirror. They’re massive things that stretch from floor to ceiling and nearly the width of each part of the wall, all framed by stylistic metal. “Eros, these are ridiculous.” She brushes her fingers along the frame that is designed to look like clustered feathers. “Gorgeous work, but utterly ridiculous.”
“You’re being judgmental right now.” I sound defensive, but I can’t help it. Just like I can’t help watching Psyche and her many reflections move about the room, pausing before each mirror so she can see the different frames. Feathers, daggers, jagged hearts, and a cluster of arrows.
Psyche touches her finger to the arrow point. “Sharp.”
“Like I said, my mother likes to make an impression.”
Psyche shakes her head. “Okay, give me the tour. I need to know what other monstrosities this place holds before we move forward.”
I know she’s using humor to deal with the unexpected turns this night has brought her, but it still irritates me. “I don’t have to marry you, you know?”
“Except I kind of think you do. You don’t seem the type to do anything without a good reason—and it’s not because I was nice to you for fifteen minutes at a party once. You don’t have to tell me, but let’s stop pretending that this is one-sided, yes?”
That’s the problem; I’m not sure I do have a deeper reason for embarking on this with her. Maybe she doesn’t realize what a big deal that moment was because she’s used to moving through life, dealing out small kindnesses on a regular basis. That’s not my world. If I admit as much, she’ll laugh in my face, and I can’t blame her for it. What kind of monster am I that I hesitate to crush a single rose? I don’t like the idea of the world without her bright presence in it. If I want to keep her alive, to keep her uncrushed, this is the only option available to us.
If I were a good man, I would offer to find her a way out of Olympus. Exile is harsh, but she’s a smart woman who will shortly have access to a giant trust fund. She would miss her family, but she would land on her feet. My mother doesn’t give a fuck about anything outside the city limits—not when it’s so damned difficult to get in and out of Olympus—so it’s as foolproof a plan as possible.
Except that puts Psyche right out of my reach, too.
I want her. Want her with an intensity that doesn’t make sense but that I can’t deny. I mean to have her.
I drift after her as she snoops around my place, making cute little disparaging comments about the bold black tile that floors the entire place and the thick dark-red curtains that bracket the floor-to-ceiling windows and the mirrors that populate every room. She even pokes around inside my fridge before giving me a long look. “You have a chef. Interesting. I would have thought you were too paranoid to let many people into this place.”
I prop my hip against the kitchen counter and cross my arms over my chest. “What makes you say that?”
“Your fridge is fully stocked. If you ate out all the time, you’d have takeout containers, or it would be empty. Your vegetables are all fresh, which suggests they actually get utilized.”
All great deductions, but it doesn’t explain how she leaped straight to chef. “And?”
Psyche somehow manages to look down her nose at me despite being a good six inches shorter. “Please, Eros. Someone as high maintenance as you are doesn’t cook for yourself.”