My spine snaps straight and I stare at him like a deer in headlights, phone still pressed up against my ear.
I push myself up, hoping the evidence of my tears isn’t flushed across my face. I cross the studio as nonchalantly as I can. Sliding my phone into my dance bag like I’m burying evidence, before lifting my eyes to meet the burning gaze I can feel following me.
“Ready to go?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
Koen doesn’t answer me, just continues to stare with those shadowed eyes of his, and I force myself not to fidget under his scrutiny.
“Who was that?”
48
MAKE. ME.
BRIAR
Now
“Who waswho?” I reply, a little too quickly, and his eyes narrow as he takes a step into the room.
“On the phone,” he purrs out in that Irish accent of his, and sweat coats my palms as he takes another step closer.
I break eye contact, pretending to be busy packing myself up, and that his question isn’t about to launch a full scale panic attack. I’m far too aware of my breathing when I turn my back to him, walking slowly across the room to retrieve the sweatshirt I left hanging on a folding chair.
“Oh, um… No one important,” I call back, as if it’s an afterthought.
Fully packed up now, I force myself back around to face him. The way he’s looking at me, I fear he can read every traitorous thought I have in my head. The conversation Gio and I had earlier, Remi’s very existence… His gaze is sharp, assessing, and a flicker of suspicion flares in the green of his eyes.
“If you say so,” he says finally.
I nod, clutching the bag tighter while shrugging like it’s not a big deal, praying he doesn’t demand to see my phone. I can just picture him scrolling through it, finding all the evidence I’ve worked so hard to keep from him.
“Have you been here all day?”
“I—” My response is delayed, unprepared for him to so easily change the subject. “Yes.”
His glare grows volatile, and I gulp, fighting the urge to take a step back, not quite sure why he’s pissed about that.
“What the fuck have you eaten?”
Shit.He’s mad. But it’s better he be pissed about my not eating than continue to stew over who I was just on the phone with.
“I, uhm, well, you see—” His eyes darken the longer I talk. “I had a granola bar in my bag.”
Studio time is precious to me. I can’t afford it, so I can only get it if no one else booked it first, which is why I end up spending most of my time practicing at the studio above the diner. And when I do get studio time here, I use it. It’s not typical for me to take a break for lunch.
Plus, takeout in this area is expensive, so I usually just eat when I get home.
Koen closes his eyes, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks to be on the verge of combusting. I seize the opportunity, with his eyes off of me, to shift uneasily on my feet, immediately straightening when his eyes open again. He sighs, audibly, picking up his own phone and typing something into it before putting it up to his ear. He glares down at me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling as though I can’t make it worse.
“Ordering you food,” he snaps back, irritation apparent on his face.
Annoyance flares through me, and I cross my arms while glaring back at him. “I can feed myself.”
“Apparently not.” He gives me an appraising look, garnering a glare back from me, before he starts speaking into the phone, rattling off a Chinese food order to be delivered to my apartment. We have the same taste in food, it would seem, and my stomach growls as Koen lists off all my favorites.
“Twenty minutes,” Koen informs me, while pocketing his phone.
