The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 39: Elyn: No Escaping the One-Bed Situation
"The upper floor only has three rooms," I say, words tumbling out as we step inside. "One’s the master’s bedroom, this one, the other is a guestroom, and the last is... technically my closet. I mean, I do have a closet in here, but I own a lot of things. Shoes, bags, jewelry, clothes. A tragic amount, really. They won’t fit in just one small space."
I stop rambling the moment I realize he hasn’t responded.
Greg stands in the middle of the room, impossibly out of place in his white dress shirt, black slacks, and black vest. The room is unmistakably feminine with pale pink walls, sheer white-and-blush curtains catching the light, while he looks dark and somber, like he’s wandered straight into enemy territory without backup.
"You sleep here alone?" he asks.
He glances at me then, and there’s something in his eyes that tells me he’d know if I lied.
Why would I lie anyway? Is that even something people lie about?
"Don’t you know better?" I ask, daring myself to sound playful now that I’ve recovered from my earlier embarrassment. "You did a background check on me. You even know Logan and I barely met during the entirety of our so-called marriage."
"There was news last year about actor Jake Yasser entering your apartment building. Rumor was he came for you."
He’s facing me now, looking oddly suspicious.
"He did," I say without hesitation.
Something dark flashes through his gaze. Open, unapologetic malice.
"But don’t get that wrong," I add immediately, knowing that my admission might suggest something. "He liked me, yes. But we were never involved. I honored my marriage with Logan."
"What was he doing in your apartment, then?"
"He showed up unannounced. He was persistent with wanting to have a relationship with me, but he eventually stopped. That was the only time he ever came here, and he didn’t even make it past the entrance. I asked him to leave."
Greg nods, but I can’t tell whether he believes me. His eyes remain grim, unreadable, and it makes my skin prickle in a way I don’t like.
"So," I say, shifting slightly under his gaze, "now that you’ve seen my room... are you leaving?"
"I’ll sleep here."
My eyes widen.
"I’m tired," he continues calmly. "And it’s a long drive back to the mansion. I need to be in the Crown Palace early tomorrow morning, so it’s more convenient for me to stay. Unless you find my presence inconvenient?"
He meets my eyes on the last word. The way he does it feels less like a question and more like a warning.
"It’s fine," I say quickly, forcing a tight smile. "I can prepare the guestroom—"
"No." His tone makes my suggestion sound borderline offensive. "I’ll sleep here. In the master’s bedroom. I don’t sleep in guestrooms. They’re smaller and less comfortable."
Shouldn’t it be more uncomfortable sleeping on someone else’s bed? At least the guestroom barely gets used.
"Okay," I give in, because of course I do. "You can have the master’s bedroom. I’ll take the guestroom."
He tilts his head.
His expression darkens.
My brows knit together in confusion.
"You’re my wife. We should be sleeping in the same room."
"But no one’s around," I trail off, a cold hollow opening in my stomach. The air suddenly feels too sharp against my skin. Maybe the AC is set too high. "No one’s going to know..."
"A few of my men will be stationed inside," he says. "They’ll stay in the living room. Those men don’t know anything about our arrangement, so we can’t let our guard down."
"Your men?" I blurt out. What about my security team?
"Yes. Your security will retire for the night. They’ll be replaced by my night-shift team."
I nod slowly. "Okay."
So that’s it then. No escaping the one-bed situation.
I let out a quiet sigh and walk toward the closet. "I don’t have men’s clothes," I say over my shoulder, "but I do have unisex ones. You probably won’t like them."
I have bigger shirts because I like using comfortable and oversized clothes when I’m just in the house. The one I hand to him is a white shirt four times bigger my size, and baggy pink cotton pants.
I smile when Greg’s eyes narrow at the pants.
"I’m sorry. I like bright colors. You can’t expect black slacks to magically appear in my closet."
He shakes his head once, clearly unimpressed, but takes the clothes without another word.
* * *
An hour later, we’re both in my bed.
I have a face mask on and sit propped against the headboard on my side, a book resting in my hands. Greg mirrors me on the other side, tablet in hand. His hair is slightly disheveled now, strands falling over his forehead.
Without the slicked-back style, he looks... softer.
Less intimidating.
Or maybe it’s the setting. The pale pink headboard he’s leaning against might be doing most of the damage.
A chuckle slips out before I can stop it.
His gaze immediately snaps to me, and I drop my eyes back to my book, mentally scolding myself. It’s obvious he knows I was staring!
"You were staring," he says. "What’s with the laugh?"
I shake my head, forcing my expression into something neutral.
Still, I feel his eyes on me.
To my surprise, he shifts closer.
The movement is subtle, but the distance between us shrinks enough for me to catch his cologne. Dangerous in the way it settles into my senses and makes me want to lean closer without permission.
"Why are you getting so close?" I turn my head toward him carefully, slowly, like a malfunctioning robot afraid one wrong move will short-circuit everything.
It doesn’t help that he’s already watching me.
"Why not?" he asks.
"Don’t you want some space between us?"
"I’m curious," he says, glancing at the book in my hands. "You chuckled earlier. I want to know what you’re reading."
Heat creeps up my cheeks.
My cheeks heat up. With the way he’s staring, and seeing the ghost of smile on his lips, I have a feeling that he knows it wasn’t the book that made me chuckle. That’s why he’s taunting me.
