His apology barely registers as I stare blankly out the window. Connor speeds toward my apartment, halving the time in this beast of a car.
I chew on my lip. “Do you seriously have protection on me?”
“Yes.” He frowns. “I didn’t want to worry you, so I didn’t tell you, and maybe that was the wrong call. But that crowd you got mixed up with aren’t friendly.”
My stomach does a nosedive, feeling all kinds of queasy.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “Nothing will happen to you. I won’t let it.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
He throws the car into park outside my apartment and faces me. “Can I come up for a bit?”
“Why the hell would you?” I ask, stunned.
“I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, holding back a sharp comeback. Great, NOW Mr. Moody decides he’s not done with me. How utterly convenient.
There’s this tiny, toxic part of me that’s thrilled. He’s not ready to say goodbye. He wants to spend more time with me.
Then there’s the other part itching to knock him down a peg.
A plan for a little payback starts forming in my head.
“Fine. You can come in for five minutes,” I state coldly. “Don’t expect the Ritz though.”
???
“Keep it down,” I whisper, easing open the door to my dingy apartment. “Grace is asleep.”
Connor steps in, and it’s almost comical how out of place he looks here—an Armani ad come to life in the middle of a thrift shop. He practically takes up the whole room. He’s the largest human to ever grace my apartment.
I notice his gaze sweeping over my less-than-luxurious setup, and I instantly go on the defensive.
“Welcome to my palace,” I declare with mock grandeur, arms wide. “I know it’s a real step down from your swanky pads I’m apparently not good enough to see.”
“Don’t, Lexi.”
I imagine the shabby interior through a billionaire’s eyes. Great, my laundry’s on display in the living room.
“It’s got charm,” he offers.
“Charm is what you say when you’re being kind.” I stand taller, refusing to be embarrassed. “You know, once I would have died of embarrassment having you see this. Now? I couldn’t care less.”
Connor faces me, the usual arrogance wiped from his face.
“Lexi, I don’t care about your decor,” he says, his voice low. “But you, on the other hand, I’m starting to realize I do care about, annoyingly enough. And just so we’re clear”—his tone gets firmer—“this place needs work.”
I scoff lightly but feel a weird twist inside.
He shoots a quick glance at the kitchen, then back at me, his frown deepening. “You’ve got some serious dampness issues here. The floor’s all warped.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “Tell me something I don’t know. The kitchen’s a ski slope. Fancy a drink?”
He declines with a shake of his head. “No, I’m good. I’ll have someone come look at this.”
“Save it,” I snap back, maybe a bit too fiercely. “I don’t want your pity fixes or your crew of Mr. Fix-Its. I can handle my own mess.”
