He freezes, his lips parting but no answer coming. The silence stretches.
“Why do you think I hate you?” he finally says, voice low, almost wounded.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the way you look at me in the office. Or how you fight every idea I pitch. If you can’t stand to be around me, why the hell did you hire us?”
Silence again. His eyes flash, unreadable. And that says everything.
We dock fifteen minutes later. I help Amanda up. Luca doesn’t even ask—he just decides he’s driving us.
The man has an Audi. Sleek. Sexy. Completely unnecessary.
He basically ushers me into the front seat, his hand warm against the small of my back, guiding more than asking. Amanda rambles the whole way home, thanking him, praising me. I stare out the window, skin prickling under the weight of his gaze on the back of my neck.
At Amanda’s place, I walk her to the door. She thanks me, and I hug her, whispering that she should relax for the rest of the day.
Back in the car, I rattle off my address. The ride is awkward—loud city, quiet car.
My hand is already on the door handle when we pull up. “Well, thank?—”
He bolts out, strides around, and opens my door before I can finish. His hand reaches for mine, firm, insistent.
I take it. His touch burns.
“You didn’t have to.”
He doesn’t answer—just walks me to my building, his body close enough that I feel his heat. “Come on, Em. I’m walking you up.”
Upstairs, I hear his steps behind me, steady, deliberate, his cologne a reminder I don’t need. At my door, the crooked number six mocks me again. “I told them twice to fix this,” I mutter, shoving at it uselessly.
“Let me.” He leans in, fingers deft, fixing it in one smooth move.
“Thanks.”
I dig through my bag, groaning. Of course, I can’t find my keys. Dropping to the floor, I dump everything out—receipts, gum, a paintbrush, tampons, sunglasses. Finally, the keys.
I glance up. He’s watching, one brow raised, mouth twitching. Of course.
“What?” I snap, sweeping everything back in.
“Hard to forget how messy you were.” He crouches beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he helps.
I stand too fast, flustered, furious, confused. My pulse stutters. I can’t breathe with him this close. I unlock the door and step inside.
He’s still watching. His eyes soften—sad, almost tender.
Just close the door, Em. Close it.
“Thanks—” I start, pushing it shut.
But he stops me, his palm against the wood, voice low. “I don’t hate you. I wanted to, but I can’t.”
I stare at the floor, arms crossed tight, throat burning. A single tear slips free. “There’s nothing I can do to change the past,” I whisper.
“I know.” He tilts my chin up gently, thumb brushing away the tear.
The touch is familiar. Timeless.
“I should go,” I murmur. “Goodby?—”
