I won’t. Not yet.
But I’m close.
“I want to be clear,” she says, her voice low and venom-laced. “You don’t own me. I didn’t agree to anything. I didn’t sign a single goddamn line.”
“No,” I say, not bothering to look at her. “But you will.”
She scoffs. “You’re confident before I sign anything.”
“I’m realistic.”
Silence again.
But I feel her eyes on me. She’s leaning against the window, arms crossed beneath her chest. She’s still in her work clothes—worn, paint-speckled jeans that cling a little too well to her legs and a white tee that’s wrinkled and riding up just enough to tease a sliver of skin.
Her hair’s a mess, thrown up like she stopped caring halfway through. There’s a smudge of something on her forehead, flour or frosting, and her lips are dry and chapped from the kind of day that grinds people down.
She looks exhausted.
Pissed.
Defensive.
Still fucking beautiful.
I clench my jaw and look away, hating how badly I want her even when she looks like she’d throw a chair at my head if I got too close.
“Where are we going?” She shifts in her seat. “Because I told your pitbull if you think I’m setting foot in that penthouse, you’ve officially lost your mind.”
“I don’t want you in the penthouse,” I say, glancing over. “Not yet.”
That quiets her. She looks confused, which I enjoy more than I should.
“I got you a hotel room.”
She narrows her eyes. “So you can keeptabson me?”
“So you’re not sleeping on a hardwood floor. Consider it charity.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“I don’t care.”
Another scoff. “You know what I think?”
“I don’t,” I reply honestly. “But I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”
She leans in slightly, her eyes flashing. “I think you want to keep me miserable just enough that I’ll agree to whatever you want.”
“Is it working?”
She glares. “Not even close.”
We pull into the private entrance of the hotel I own. I park. She doesn’t move.
“You coming?”
“I should stab you.”
