“Considering you’re here, I take it you can’t read?” He says nothing, just tilts his head, like it amuses him. “Of course you canread,” I add, taking another step closer even though I should be backing away. “You’ve been invading my privacy by reading my letters for years.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You can’t still be pissed about that. Surely that’s at the bottom of the forgive-me pile.”
“Forgive you?” I almost laugh. “You’re not sorry.”
He leans back, the chair creaking under his weight, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re right. I’m not… not for that part, anyway.”
“Jesus, Phoenix, why are you so intent on being somewhere you’re not wanted? Aren’t you embarrassed?”
Make him hate you.
“Pretty sure we established I don’t do humiliation. You lost that leverage when you asked me to wrap my hand around your throat while I got myself off.”
He stands, all height and power, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes now that I’m barefoot on the heated floor.
“Sit down.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, my tone easily matching the look of shock on my face.
“Sit. Down.”
When I don’t, he sighs, rolls his eyes like I’m the one being unreasonable, and walks away. A second later, a soft ding breaks the silence from the kitchen. When he comes back, he’s carrying a plate and sets it down on the table, as if this is just another night in for us.
“What is this?”
“What does it look like?”
“No,” I hiss, gesturing around the room, “this. What the fuck is this?”
“I made you dinner.”
“I’m not touching that,” I say, glaring at the food.
Probably fucking drugged it, the asshole. There’s no universe where I’ll eat something he’s made—even if I’m starving, even if it smells so good my stomach aches and my mouth waters.
“I know I’ve been waiting for you a long time, but if you think I’ve got the patience to sit here and watch you slowly ingest a sedative, you’re out of your mind. If I wanted you unconscious, you’d get chloroform—quick, easy, done. I’m not the type to twiddle my thumbs, waiting for you to pass out.”
“Great…” I mutter, dragging the word out.
“Never drugged you before, baby. Not about to start now.”
“Okay, so what? You just broke into my home… again… and decided to play house? You thought dinner would fix the stalking and the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I decided to play house and make you dinner.”
“Just for me?”
“Didn’t think you were ready for a date, but I’m happy to keep you company while you eat. If that’s what you want.”
“Am I giving off the energy of someone who wants you to join me for dinner?”
“Considering you haven’t kicked me out yet, I’m thinking you’re not as opposed to it as you’re pretending to be.”
“Phoenix,” I snap, louder this time, fighting the pull in my stomach. “Get out. Get out of my apartment. Get out of my life.”
