“At midnight? To your neighborhood?” He shook his head, and I watched the movement of his locs, the way they brushed against his shoulders. “Nah. I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t need?—”
“It wasn’t a request.” He headed for the door, then looked back at me over his shoulder. “Finish up. I’ll wait.”
The drive was silent at first, but the tension was suffocating. I could feel him in the driver’s seat, too aware of his hands on thewheel, the way his thigh muscles flexed when he pressed the gas. I kept my eyes on the window, but my body was attuned to every movement he made.
When we pulled up to my building, his phone rang. I glanced down and saw a girl’s name flash across the screen: Farah. He looked at it, and something flickered across his face.
“Bye,” I said flatly, reaching for the door handle. “Go answer your girlfriend’s call.”
“Jealous?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, and God help me, it did something to my stomach I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Of what?” I shot back, even as my pulse quickened. “There ain’t much to be jealous of. Whoever she is has to tolerate an asshole.”
“Couldyoutolerate me?” His smirk widened, his eyes dropping to my mouth.
Heat flooded my face. “You’re delusional.” I pushed the door open. “And you’re not as impressive as you think you are.”
“Really?” He leaned back in his seat, spreading his legs slightly in a way that drew my eyes before I could stop myself. All cocky confidence and raw masculinity. “Because you been thinking about me. I can tell.”
My mouth went dry. “I’ve been thinking about how much I hate you. There’s a difference.”
“Hate’s just love painted in fire, sweetheart.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “And you’re burning up right now.”
“Don’t call me that.” I turned to face him fully and realized my mistake. We were too close in the confines of his car, his presence overwhelming. “You’re not a boss. You’re not impressive. You’re just a man who works for Meech, doing his dirty work like a good little errand boy.”
The smirk vanished, something dangerous flashing in those eyes. “I don’t work for your dusty-ass baby daddy.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re the one showing up at my door, threatening me, stalking me—all because Meech told someone to tell you to. That’s not a boss. That’s a puppet.”
His jaw tightened, and I watched the muscle jump. Watched his hands grip the steering wheel. “Don’t be mad at me because you didn’t choose better.”
“Excuse me?”
“Meech. You should’ve chosen better. But women like you never do, do you? Always picking the worst possible men and then crying victim when it blows up. Oh, he’s a narc, he’s abusive…” He mocked my voice, and rage flooded through me, dousing whatever heat had been building.
“You don’t know shit about me.”
“And you don’t know shit about me.” His voice was sharp, cutting, but his eyes… his eyes were still on my mouth.
“Nor do I want to.” I grabbed my bag, but before I could move, his hand shot out and caught my wrist. Not hard. Not painful. But firm enough to stop me.
“Let go of me.” My voice was barely a whisper.
“You hate me.” His thumb brushed over my pulse point, and I knew he could feel how fast my heart was racing. “But your body doesn’t seem to agree.”
I yanked my wrist free and slammed the car door so hard the whole vehicle shook.
I was halfway to the building entrance when I heard his window roll down.
“You’re welcome for the groceries.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t turn around. Just kept walking, my heart pounding, my hands shaking with rage and want and confusion.
Behind me, I heard his engine start. Heard him pull away.
And I hated that part of me wanted to turn around and look.
