“That is not the point.”
“I disagree.”
I throw up both hands. “I also have another job.”
His jaw tightens a fraction. “You can miss a few recordings.”
That makes me pause. Because he should not know enough to say recordings like that.
I narrow my eyes. “How much do you know about that job?”
“Enough.”
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
The driver is already unloading bags from the trunk and walking them toward the terminal. Bags.
He packed bags. For me?
I stare out the window at the luggage and then back at Aleksei in horror. “You packed for me?”
“No.”
The relief lasts less than a second.
“I had someone from the building send up a garment bag and essentials.”
I actually gasp. “That is somehow more unhinged.”
He leans back, looking entirely too comfortable for a man dropping that kind of statement.
“You’re overreacting.”
“I am reacting exactly the right amount.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I glare at him. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like your opinion is law.”
“It usually is.” The worst part is, he says it without arrogance. Just simple fact.
I make a frustrated noise and look toward the door, seriously considering getting out and going back inside the city and whatever fragile grip I had left on reality.
“You cannot make this choice for me,” I say, lower now. More dangerous.
That gets his full attention. For one second the car feels smaller.
Then he moves.
