There was a pause on the line. “But I can, and I will, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then why are you calling?” I looked back out at the tangible proof sitting right there in my driveway that Alex Westwood did exactly what he said he would.
“To find out if you like it.” He asked the question as casually as I might ask someone if they liked the color blue, like he hadn’t just dropped a six-figure bomb in my driveway before sunrise. “If not, I can have the color changed. The interior too. We can do cognac leather instead of black. Or white. White looks dramatic in winter.”
I stared at the car some more, fighting to force nonchalance into my voice. “It’s fine. Black is great. Very subtle.”
He laughed, the sound low, but happy. “Are you sure?”
“What?” I shrugged even though he couldn’t see it. “It’s a car.”
“A car? It’s a Bentley Continental GT Mulliner,” he corrected. “Jet black.”
“Yes. A modest little grocery-getting runaround if I’ve ever seen one.”
His amusement only deepened. I’d noticed this about him, how my irritation didn’t bother him. It seemed to make him happy instead. He always smiled when I was mean to him, like being under the umbrella of my wrath and annoyance was exactly where he wanted to be.
“You’re terrible at pretending you don’t care,” he said.
“I care about very few things.”
“Mm. One of them is currently parked outside your house.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I enjoyyou,” he replied easily, and my grip tightened on the mug I’d only just picked up again.
Thankfully, he cleared his throat, changing gears before I could say something as dangerous as he just had. “Are you going into the office today?”
“Of course,” I said. “What else would I be doing?”
“Just checking,” he said lightly. “Some people do take time off after their lives implode and before they rebuild themselves, you know.”
“Some people don’t have that luxury.”
“You do now,” he said. “I’m working on it.”
I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fog the glass. “You’re relentless.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like feeling like this,” I admitted after pausing for another beat.
“Like what?”
I sighed. “Like I don’t know whether to scream at you or thank you.”
He laughed. “You can do both.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said. “I’m not doing this to control you, Killer. You needed a car and I got you one. That’s all it is.”
“That’s debatable.”
“It’s still yours. Registered in your name. No strings attached. Sell it and buy a Prius or anything you want, but you needed a car.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
