“You don’t need to get out. I’m good.”
That’s one thing I will not do. I always walk her to her door, whether she wants it or not. With that damn ex of hers running around, I don’t like the idea of her going in alone.
“No, I’m seeing you in.”
Too tired or too sad to argue, she just gets out of the car. Slams the car door hard enough to make my teeth clench. I jump out and follow her. She stops short. Her front door is wide open. Her hand covers her mouth. Eyes are wide and scared.
“Stay here.”
I shove her back and proceed forward. She edges toward her neighbor’s front door. I’m not scared. I hope it’s her dickwad ex so I have a real reason to finally beat his ass. If he’s inside, he’s trespassing and a criminal. Good.
“Paco isn’t barking.”
Oh shit.
I glance at her, scared and starting to shake. Comfort is what I want to give. But she needs to know her dog is okay. Her need overrides my desire to hold her. My shoulders roll back. My hands roll into fists, ready to pulverize him. Stepping into the apartment, nothing looks out of order.
Her place is small. I snap on the lights and clear it pretty quickly. Paco is shut in the closet. Disappointment fills me. I wanted to send a message by kicking his ass and getting him thrown in jail, so she doesn’t have to deal with him.
Her dog starts barking, but I snatch him up and hold him to my chest. Whispering how scared his mom is while walking back out of her apartment. She rushes forward, Spanish spewing out as she grabs him from me. Kisses him endlessly. Makes me jealous that those lips are on him.
“Where was he?”
“In your closet.”
Her eyes narrow when she storms past me. Hoops swinging opposite the purse on her arm. She looks ready to battle now. I follow behind. Nothing’s overturned or appears missing. Hugging her dog, she makes a slow circle. Her gaze roams the room before charging down to her bedroom.
She tears through the apartment like she expects him to still be hiding there. As if I hadn’t already gone through the place. Doors are yanked open and slammed closed. The bathroom curtain is yanked aside so hard that it rattles the rod. Drawers tugged open and pushed shut with jerky hands. Paco squirms against her chest, nails catching her scrub top, whining at every sharp noise.
“Nothing’s missing.” Her words are sharp, but her eyes keep darting, restless, as if she can’t convince herself.
“You’re still shaking.”
“I’m not shaking,” she snaps, though Paco whines louder in her grip. “I’m furious. That’s different.”
“Furious is fine. But you’re not staying here tonight.”
Her head whips toward me, hoops swinging.
“Qué? No. This is my home. He doesn’t get to win. You think I should run because some estúpido idiota pushed my door open? Never.”
“Open doors mean he was inside. He touched your stuff. Messed with your dog. You call that winning?”
Her nostrils flare. She presses her cheek to Paco’s fur and mutters fast Spanish, sounding like a half-prayer, half-curse.
“No voy a dejar que me saque de aquí. Not him.”
“Look, I don’t know what that means, but . . .” I step closer, filling her bedroom doorway. “He already has. Look at you. You’re ready to fight, but he’s not here.”
“I’ve been fighting men like him my whole damn life.” She glares at me, eyes blazing. “I don’t need another man telling me where to go. You think you can boss me around, Massimo? You don’t know me.”
“I’m not bossing you around.” I cross the room and put my hand on her shoulder. Restraining myself from doing more. Like scooping her up, dumping her ass in my car, and driving the fuck off. “I know you’re scared.”
“I’m pissed, Papito. There’s a difference.”
“You’re both.”
She stomps past me into the kitchen, sets Paco on the counter, and gestures wide with her free hands.
