Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(41)

“Fair enough,” I say softly. He’s doing this out of kindness, no other reason.

“No boyfriends.”

My lips part, and my heart jumps. “What?”

“It’s a distraction,” he explains, “and if you’re not one-hundred percent committed to becoming an artist, then you’re wasting my time again.” His eyes smolder hot. “And if you do end up with a boyfriend, I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to hear it. That stays out of the gym. Understand?”

I digest all of his words with a heavy frown. I don’t think I misinterpreted the attraction between us last night—but maybe that’s all it was, a drunken night. And I hate myself for fixating on him like that when he’s giving me a handout that I’ve desperately needed.

“You’re glaring,” he says. “I didn’t realize your love life was more important to you than your career—”

“It’s not,” I retort; my pulse speeds the longer we discuss this. I feel like puking.

He lifts my chin with two fingers, his hard gaze pushing through me. That stare—it’s so intrusive. So intimate. That it might as well be a form of sex. Eye sex. Eye fucking. I understand it now. And he says lowly, “Then no boyfriends.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I breathe.

A knock sounds on the main door, the noise dull in this room but audible. Between his siblings and cousins at The Masquerade, I’m surprised there aren’t more knocks.

“Is that all the rules?” I ask as he stands.

“Unless I think of more later,” he tells me, basically declaring that he can amend the rules at any time. He holds all the power—as he should. He’s doing you a giant favor, Thora. I’m so grateful that I can’t complain, even if it wasn’t on his list of rules.

“I left Advil on the bathroom counter for you,” he tells me on his way to the door, the knocking louder. When he leaves to answer it, I scan the room for my bag. A couple seconds pass before I remember that my suitcase is at Camila’s—along with a change of clothes, underwear and my shoes.

I exhale, my stomach still queasy. I’m not sure the green juice is helping any. Camila is most likely busy dealing with her extended family, and I don’t want to complicate her day with my baggage—literally. I smile weakly at the pun, and then quickly frown when I realize it has not solved my problems.

Nikolai left the door ajar, and I hear voices escalate in the living room, enough that curiosity propels me there. I edge near the wooden frame.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” the familiar male voice says. “It’s just that I don’t trust you.” I imagine John Ruiz’s surly, unapologetic face.

“That makes perfect sense,” Nikolai replies. “What am I going to do with Thora’s clothes? Steal them? Wear them for myself?”

My clothes. I’m opening the door in a flash, too pleased with the slant of the universe, dipping on my side. My solution just walked into Nikolai’s suite with my suitcase. I creep into the living room, my toes throbbing from the torture I put them through last night.

It isn’t until John sees me that I notice my mistake. His eyes travel down the length of my body, clad in a black button-down. Nikolai’s shirt. And nothing else.

The universe giveth and taketh away.

“I can explain,” I say quickly. “We didn’t…” I motion between Nikolai and me. He stays quiet, domineering, not helping at all. “Do anything—we didn’t do anything. I just didn’t have a change of clothes.” It’s the best excuse there is. Maybe because it’s true.

“It’s not my business,” he says, my hefty suitcase by his side. “But either way you’re still certifiably insane.” He lets out a dry laugh. “You really would rather stay with him than go to a hotel or a hostel. Honestly, Thora, I pegged you as a degree above stupid.”

A degree above stupid must be a fairly good compliment from John.

Nikolai’s biceps flex, a sign that he’s ticked off. “And what’d I do to you?”

John never backs down. Not even shrinking in place. Even if Nikolai is taller, broader, and a year older—John is angrier, moodier, and tapping into the I hate this fucking world vibe with expertise.

“For starters,” John begins, “you turn a perfectly good club into an idiot fest every Saturday night. And the rest of you Kotovas are all the same. Thinking you’re above the rules. Your little brother practically pisses everywhere he goes—”

“You can leave,” Nikolai interrupts, his jaw hardened severely. His muscles coiled, on offense.

They have some sort of staring match that I can’t make sense of. John unflinchingly stays his course, as though he expected that type of reaction from Nikolai. He breaks the eye contact first, not in defeat really. He just hands my suitcase off to me, and I grab the handle.

“Camila told me to tell you not to ditch her just because you’re not crashing at her place anymore,” he says. “She doesn’t have many friends who stick around here.”

I nod, my heart swelling that she’d even want to stay in touch. “I’ll text her. Thanks for this.”

He shrugs. “Camila made me do it. Don’t think I’m a nice guy.”