Before he can say anything else, I grab my purse and slide out.
Instantly he’s at my side.
He takes my fob and opens my door. “Seven a.m., Ms. Hollis.”
Knowing I absolutely must escape while I still can, I slip inside and pull the door from his grip, slamming it closed and pushing the button to lock it.
Face set in lines that threaten a future reckoning, he folds his arms and watches as I start the engine and then pull away.
As I turn onto the main road, I look in the wing mirror.
He’s hasn’t moved an inch.
Why does a part of me wish he hadn’t let me get in without touching me again?
Chapter Nine
Seraphina
I fling open my apartment door so fast the knob bangs the wall behind me. “Thank God—” I’m already picturing Lila’s wide grin, ready to roll up her sleeves and get me out of this hellhole of an apartment.
Except it’s not her.
My heart flatlines, then restarts so hard I almost drop the roll of bubble wrap clutched in my sweaty fist.
It’s Xavier Blackwell, all six-foot-something of unapologetically rugged billionaire bastard, hot enough to make sin sweat, leaning against my peeling doorframe.
He’s balancing a tray of coffee in one hand, a paper bag in the other, looking as if he’s ready to prop up the whole damn world if he needs to.
He plants one of his cuffed boots in the threshold so that I can’t close the door. Not that I want to.
“Expecting someone else, Ms. Hollis?” His voice is a low scrape, a bourbon warmth that doesn’t belong here in my beat-up Midtown apartment with its sputtering window unit and the smell of cheap cardboard boxes.
He’s waiting for an answer. Wondering if I have a man coming over? I should let him suffer, but I can’t. “Lila. My bestie. She was supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
Despite myself, I sweep my glance over him.
On occasion, when I’ve gotten to the office early, I’ve seen him in workout gear before he hits the shower in his private bathroom. But this…? He’s in dark jeans that hug his thighs indecently well, a gray henley stretched across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up his forearms. There’s a hint of stubble sharpening his jawline, roughening that too-handsome face I still see when I shut my eyes at night.
My traitorous stomach flips, heat curling low in my belly.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds like I’ve been run ragged by him, and I still can’t figure out which way is up. He raises the tray.
“Kolaches and coffee. Figured you could use both.”
The scent hits me before the words do—rich, dark coffee, strong enough to drag me back from the dead. And the kolaches? Yeasty, buttery, still warm in the bag. Sausage and cheese, if I’m lucky. Comfort food, Montrose-bakery-style. I was planning to pour stale cereal into a chipped bowl and call it breakfast. But the truth is, I’d sell part of my soul for a fresh kolache right now.
But I’m shocked beyond words. My agreement with him says I’m supposed to work at least half a day on Saturdays, and I’ve had a lot of time off to look at apartments and go shopping for clothes. Which makes the fact he’s standing here when he’d rather be at the office all the more surprising.
“I’m guessing you’ve been so busy with work and packing that eating wasn’t a priority.”
He’s right.
Thank God I finally got my last paycheck from Sterling. It covered the boxes and the tape and maybe the gas for making a few more food deliveries if I need to pad my bank account before the first real paycheck clears. But a splurge from a high-end bakery? Not happening.
“You’re right about that.” The twelve-hour days at work haven’t given me a lot of personal time.
He lifts an eyebrow, then glances past my shoulder, waiting. I know what he wants—permission. He could barge right in, but that’s not the game we play. He wants me to let him.
