When I don’t move, he strolls over to me, his presence seeming larger than life. But this is the Easton I know, dark and impatient. I turn, so my back is to my colleague, and crane my neck to look up at him.
“Arloe,” he states once he’s in front of me.
I inhale and try to ignore how good he smells. “Easton,” I respond.
“Grab your things, we need to leave.”
The words are stern, and for whatever reason send a chill down my spine. It could be the fact that my mind instantly returns to his brother’s office, the touch of his hands between my legs feeling like much more than a memory.
“I have work, Easton. You can come back when I’m closed.” I shuffle on the heels of my feet and cross my arms over my chest.
I expect him to counter, to disapprove of my answer, but instead, he steps closer until his pelvis rests against my stomach, reminding me of the stark height difference. Easton looks over my head to Greer and brings the back of his fingers to my arm, trailing the length of my forearm with his nails.
He stares down at me for a moment, neither of us saying a word, only the subtle sound of our breaths. The tension is so intense, I can hear Greer breathe as well. I blink, but Easton doesn’t back down, but I can see the wheels turning in his head, and it’s almost like he is fighting with himself over my response.
I realize I’m doing what he told me I’m not allowed to do—I’m disobeying him, denying him whatever it is he wants. But I expected more of what I saw in the club when I tried to leave him. Aggression, desire—lust. That’s not what I see now, though, his eyes are more tortured, devastatingly uncertain.
“Fine,” he snipes.
I shiver when he leans down to speak into my ear, the hairs of his low-cut beard scratching my cheek.
“And, amore.” He pauses, and I swear he sniffs me. “I want your hair up.”
Easton backs away, turning before I can object and out of my shop just as quickly.
“Oh. My. God. Arloe Harway…spill,” Greer exaggerates once he’s out of sight.
I glance at her, holding a hand out to silently tell her to drop it. Greer whines and sucks her teeth at me, and eventually she leaves it alone for the time being.
The next few hours move by at a snail’s pace, and I find myself watching the clock on the wall to the right of the register. Greer left thirty minutes ago while I stayed behind to close up. And now that I’ve reached the end of the night, my nerves are all over the place.
But I inhale a gust of imaginary confidence, shut down the computer systems, lock the deposit into the safe in the back office, and exit my store. It’s a little nippy out tonight, and I shiver as the breeze penetrates my body. My back is to the street while I lock up and tuck my keys into my person.
“Your hair’s not up, amore,” Easton says before I turn around.
I meet his gaze. He’s leaning against my car, his hands in his pocket and that cocky grin he had the first day we met lingering from his lips. I drop my head, realizing I forgot all about his request. I glance up again, and he’s holding a palm out to me.
“What?” I question.
“Keys to your car,” he states.
With my brows pulled tight, I drop the key fob into his grasp. “Where are we going, and where is your car?”
“My place, and I had my brother drop me at the shop. Now get in.” He turns, unlocking the doors at the same time, and takes his seat before I can move from my spot.
It’s not until he closes the door that I move, slowly inching to the other side of the vehicle, confusion and curiosity taking hold. The moment I’m safely inside the car, he pulls off, my tires screeching from the abrupt acceleration.
Chapter Ten
Arloe
Easton whips my tiny car into the space next to his Bugatti in the driveway and is out of the vehicle before we’re fully parked. The ride over was awkward and quiet, mainly with me watching my surroundings, trying to gather my bearings. If he was going to kill me, he would have done so already, but it’s always good to know where you are. You never know when that information may come in handy.
I step out of the car a moment later, throwing my gaze around at all the houses. Nothing like what I expected from a man like him. He’s dark, dangerous, and everything about his attitude says penthouse. But this is different, not quite fitting for a Mafia king.
The house is quaint and cozy, with fencing. Not white picket fencing, but I certainly never pegged him for a fenced-in yard type of guy. The porch wraps around the side, and I imagine snuggling up on a hammock with a book and a blanket.
The inside of his home is just as surprising. Large plush furnishings, with little touches of decor throughout. It’s homey, and again,nothinglike Easton. There’s a child’s blanket hanging off the arm of the large sofa, which causes me to shoot my gaze to him. I never would have thought him to be a father, he just doesn’t strike me as anyone who’d enjoy being around children.
