Is he trying tobuymy love?
Because this isn’t going to work. And I hate feeling indebted to him when we didn’t even talk about it. When I’m too independent for my own good, and someone helping me out like this makes me feel ick.
“Yes, Daydream?”
I snap my neck to the door and find Bronte, but before I can pepper off his stopping of all debts, donations, and speaking to me about it first, he’s eye-fucking me.
And he’s eye-fucking me in my towel.
Shit.
A lump forms in my throat because I got so caught up in my head that I didn’t bother getting dressed before letting him have it.
“Stopgetting into my life and handling things,” I carp out, exhaling heavily, but it doesn’t do anything for the pent-up unease throughout my whole body. “This is getting to be too much.”
“You’re overwhelmed.”
God, yes.
And Bronte doesn’t stop there; he enters the space in four steps and stands in front of me, but doesn’t push it past that.
“It wasn’t meant to do that,” he says softly. “I just want you thriving, Meirna.”
I hear him, I do.
It’d be sweet if he were myboyfriendat one point in time, but this is borderline insane.
“I can do that on my own,” I impart simply. “I don’t need your help.”
He nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I do appreciate his apology, probably more than he thinks I would. Nonetheless, his paying for things makes me feel insignificant and small in my own life.
“I’m going to get dressed.” My statement and subtleget out nowdoesn’t get Bronte to move. “And you’re not invited to watch.”
His eyes skate along my shoulders, across my collarbone to my other shoulder. “I’d say I’d pay, but I don’t think that’d be received very well.”
“You pay to watch people get undressed?”
“I would this time.”
Bothersome blushes meet my cheeks again, but I stand my ground. “Not happening.”
“Worth a try.”
“I’ll be ready in twenty. I need to make a call.”
Bronte eyes me—dare I say—suspiciously before he steps back to make his exit from the room. “I’ll be ready when you are.”
He begins out and, for some reason, I feel the need to tell this man everything.
Not sure why.
He likes loyalty, but I have trust issues galore now.
“Bronte?” He turns on his heels at his own leisure, then patiently waits. “I’m calling Bobby.”
I see him run his tongue to one cheek, as if tampering down his temper, which Bobby would allow free at any given moment, and says, “Of course, you are.”
