The door opens.
I straighten.
Lorenzo steps into the room, closing the door behind him with controlled force. His eyes snap to mine immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Relaxing.” I shrug.
“Stop.”
“No.”
We stand there, facing off across a few feet of polished wood.
“You don’t get to threaten people because I speak to them,” I say.
His mouth curves slightly. “I don’t threaten. I clarify.”
“You clarified very loudly.”
Now a full-fledged smirk greets me. “Only for you.”
I step closer. “You’re jealous.”
The grin drops from his face. “I don’t get jealous,” he scoffs.
I cock a brow. “You threatened to blind someone.”
“Efficient communication.” Lorenzo shrugs.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand this obsession.”
Something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Exposure. “You think you were temporary,” he says quietly. “One summer . . .” I don’t move. “You weren’t. You were never the middle. You were it.”
The words settle heavily in my chest. “That’s not love,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s worse.”
Silence hums between us, tight and volatile. I’m not sure what he will do. Maybe step closer, or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking from a place deep inside me. Instead, he steps back.
“Go upstairs,” he says. “And stop flirting with my men.”
“Or what?”
His eyes darken. “Or I’ll stop pretending I have restraint.”
He turns and walks away, and I stay where I am, heart pounding, breath shallow.
Because I didn’t flirt for attention, I flirted to test a theory, and now I know . . .
He can cage my body. Control the house. Hell, he can even threaten my world.
But he can’t control what he wants.
And what he wants is me.
43
