If Rachel knew they were in here, just hanging around, she’d have a heart attack. Rachel doesn’t like people she doesn’t know in her house.
I walk into the kitchen and pick up a blueberry muffin. I’m starving. “I have to go to the store. I don’t know what you two are up to today, but you can’t stay here,” I say around a mouthful of food.
“I’ll be outside if you need anything,” Paz tells Emmanuel and walks out the front door. I continue to eat the muffin. Because one, it’s delicious. And two, I’m hungry.
“How long do you need to be at the store?” Emmanuel asks.
“Why?” I counter.
“Because I have a pilot on standby to take us to Vegas. And if it’s going to be hours, I’ll let the guy sleep.”
Well, now I feel like a bitch. He has people waiting on us?
“I had a shipment that was supposed to arrive yesterday. I need to check the stock and make sure Amy is okay on her own for the week.”
“How long?” Emmanuel repeats.
“I should be done by four.” That’s five hours away. It will give me time to stop at home, get dressed properly, put on some makeup, and fix my hair before I go to the shop. Right now, I look like I’ve been freshly fucked, which I have been, but it’s not the look I’m going for.
“Okay.” Emmanuel’s eyes bore into mine. He’s looking for something. I’m not sure what. “I want to show you something before you go to the store.”
My brows furrow. This is my town. What could he possibly have to show me here?
“I need to go home first. I need to change and fix my face and hair,” I explain.
“Fix what now?” Emmanuel closes the distance between us, his hand curls around the base of my throat, and he tilts my chin upwards. “This face is fucking perfection, mi alma. There is no need to fix it.” His hand then moves to my hair, his fingers twirling around a loose strand. “This hair, fucking perfect. What the fuck could you possibly have to fix?”
I blink up at him. I’m used to beingtold I’m beautiful. I’ve heard it more times than I care to admit. The words lost their meaning for me a long time ago. But when Emmanuel tells me I’m perfect, with that conviction in his voice… Like he really believes what he’s saying, there’s a part of me that wants to be perfect for him. At least for the week I agreed to. After that, he should lose interest and move on. And if he hasn’t, I’ll figure out a way to make sure he does. Because us together, as good as it feels, is never really going to work long-term.
“Thank you, but I can’t go to work looking like this. How about you tell me where you want to show me whatever it is, and I can meet you there?” I suggest.
“You ready to go?” Emmanuel asks.
“Yep.”
I look around the kitchen and living room, making sure I haven’t left a mess behind in my friend’s house. Then I pick up my bag and keys, and take the hand Emmanuel is holding out to me. There’s something very intimate about holding this man’s hand. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want him to let go. That part I shove deep down into the pits of hell. Nothing good will come of those kinds of thoughts.
Once we’re outside, Emmanuel walks towardswhere Paz’s vehicle is idling by the curb. “Ah, I have my car here.” I stop, pulling my hand away from his.
“I’ll get Paz to drive it back,” he says.
“No, you won’t. I’m driving my own car home, E. You can do whatever you want, but I’m driving my car.” I turn around and stomp towards the driveway. Before I can reach the driver’s side door, Emmanuel catches up to me.
“Keys,” he says, holding out his palm towards me.
I raise my brows at him. Is he seriously demanding that I give him my car keys?
“Yeah, that’s not how this is going to work. I’m not a dog or one of your lackeys. You can’t bark orders at me, Emmanuel.” My hands land on my hips.
“Can I have your keys? I’ll drive your car, with you in it, back to your place,” he asks in a less-harsh tone.
“If you want to come with me, you are more than welcome to, but you’re riding in the passenger seat.” I move past him, open the driver’s side door, and jump in. Starting the car, I wait as Emmanuel continues to stare at me through the window.
He rakes an aggravated hand through his hair, mumbles something in Spanish, and then he walksaround to the passenger’s side door and jumps in. Without a word, I reverse out of Rachel’s driveway.
“You know, you don’t have to come with me if my driving bothers you that much,” I tell Emmanuel, who is sitting still next to me. Silently stewing.
“That’s not what bothers me,” he grunts.
