The stockroom is cooler than the bar, dim and close with shelves running floor to ceiling. Liquor, dry goods, backup linens, the scent of cardboard and citrus cleaner and old wood. The door swings shut behind us with a soft hiss and a solid click.
Ever sets the crate down and reaches for the shelf without looking at me. He’s ignoring me on purpose. That pisses me off more than if he’d snapped.
“You can’t seriously expect me to drop it,” I say, planting myself between him and the next shelf, “when you all but dangled it in front of me.”
That gets his attention. His eyes drop to my face, then lower, quick and unreadable, probably clocking the fact that I’m running on nothing more than fumes and nerve endings.
“Yes,” he says. “I can.”
“I want to know how all this works, seeing as how you practically abducted me. His is the master bedroom at the end of the hall, right? Just a few doors down from mine…and yours?”
Silence. He shakes his head a little, but it’s not denial. Irritation, maybe.
I press harder, ticking things off on my fingers. “So Nash isn’t just your boss. That’s his house. He lives there too. How does that work? You all come here and do what he says, and then go home and play happy families? What about when you bring women home? Does he get first pick? What is it—some kind of hierarchy? Is he top dog? The alpha male? Or is it more of a partnership?”
“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is.”
The words land flat and cold.
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You keep saying that like I’m asking what your favorite sexual position is.”
Ever turns away to line up bottles that are already lined up. He turns them so their labels are precisely aligned, keeping his hands busy. His shoulders square. His precious control: locked down.
“I work in your bar,” I continue. “I live in your house. Last night—” I stop, because I’m not giving himthat.Not here. Not like this. “Let’s just say things happened that maybe changed the terms.”
That makes him go still.
Good.
I take one step closer. “And I really think that if there’s an entire second business—an illegal one, from what I understand—hidden under the place I work, and theman running it is staying under the same roof as me, then yes—actually—itismy business.”
His shoulders move once. Not a shrug. Not quite a breath.
I turn to leave, and his sigh of relief hits me on a visceral level. Then something else hits me, and I whirl back around, finger raised.
“Also, for the record, a concealed entrance to an underground gambling room is probably a fire code violation.”
I toss it out there because I want to break his composure. I need proof he can still be moved.
Ever stares at the floor for a long moment. A sound rumbles up, and his shoulders shake.
It takes me a second to realize he’s laughing. The sound is low, brief, and somehow more insulting than if he’d called me stupid.
“Probably would be…if the fire chief weren’t in our pocket,” he says, turning slowly toward me.
The room changes when he faces me. There’s no warning. No gradual shift. One second it’s shelves and inventory and fluorescent hum.
The next it’s heat. Pressure. The feeling of standing too close to something volatile and pretending I’m not fascinated by the burn radius.
My heart trips over itself hard enough I hate my own body for it.
“Get back on the floor,” he says.
I should do that. I have tables. I have orders backing up. I have every practical reason to walk out and regroup before I make a bigger mess.
But practicality loses a lot of ground when a man looks at you like a command is just a different way of touching you.
I was about to leave anyway, but I narrow my eyes and fist my hands at my hips.
