I get up, my eyebrows furrowing.
“What do you mean?”
Sloane turns around and walks away.
I sprint to catch up to him.
“Mr. Pierce, what—”
“I could go for a killer steak right now,” he mutters.
“Sir—”
“Glass of wine. Maybe some lobster.”
“Mr. Pierce!” I bite, loud enough I hear it echo.
Shit.
I freeze in the hallway and he turns to look at me with a grin that is downright sinful.
“Yes, Oliver?” he asks, his smile smug. He saunters closer to me. “Don’t pout," he says, his voice smooth as silk.
“What are we doing?” I ask, fear lacing me that someone will find us standing here in the hallway. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. Close enough I could kiss him.
“Weare leaving," he says plainly.
“We?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Yes, we. I drove you here, did I not?”
My blood chills. “Yes, but—”
“No buts.” He shakes his head. “I told you I would take care of you.”
It’s the way he says the words. Soft, reverent. Like he means it in ways he shouldn’t. I barely know him.
But I get the feeling Sloane Pierce knows me quite well, though we’ve only just met.
“I can take care of myself," I say, but my voice shakes, betraying me.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You did not think I was going to let you off the hook so easily, now did you?” He chuckles. “Especially after your little display earlier.”
Something inside me shifts and I feel a surge of guilt. Shame.
Anger and frustration.
Perhaps even a bit of remorse.
I let out a grunt.
“You mean when you were a dick to me?”
His eyes search mine, for what I’m not sure, but I note the darkness in them has disappeared.
“I’m still mad, you know," I say with all the ferocity of a kitten in protest.
“I know," he says carefully. “As you should be. I was a dick. To you.”
