He turns away from me, casually picks my duffel bag up again, and walks ahead without another word. His scrutinizing gaze is no longer on me—for now, anyway—but I can still feel the lingering heat from his eyes on my skin. And he still hasn’t told me where the damn bathroom is.
I steel myself and square my shoulders, urging my heart to slow down as I hesitantly follow him. I try to distract myself from my angstiness by looking around, keeping my eyes peeled for a bathroom.
The interior of the house looks a lot different from the way it does outside. There are alternating block and cylindrical pillars from the floor to the tall ceiling. The floor is made entirely of polished, expensive-looking wood. Probably mahogany or something. But I’m no expert, so I can’t be sure.
There are granite counter-tops of various sizes dispersed here and there, and champagne colored tiles lining the ceiling. There are several circular lights embedded in the ceiling that are all on, giving the entire space a warm, amber glow. But their beauty is nothing compared to the massive black and clear crystal chandeliers hanging between them, breaking up the gorgeous sea of rose gold and further illuminating the vast space. The colors and atmosphere are honestly a world away from what I imagined a man like Frost would be in to.
Then again, maybe it’s more his wife’s taste?
I physically pause at that thought, my feet halting mid-step. Suddenly, I want to throw up.