“Pull over,” I mutter. “I have to make a quick stop.”
“Here, sir? Really?”
I glare at him, and he nods, pulling to the curb at Saks. I have a little shopping to do.
IT’S NEARLY MIDNIGHT WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN ON MY FLOOR. I CROSS THE FOYER ON
autopilot when Jonas’s “Hi,” makes me fumble my package. I spin, seeing him laying in the entryway
of his apartment, legs and feet on the open door.
“Holy fuck. Jesus, don’t do that shit. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Unlikely,” he says absently, staring at me. “Where have you been? You’re not usually back this
early. And you don’t look like you’ve had sex.”
Dropping my head, I turn and open my door, placing the bag down carefully. Then I peel off my
suit jacket and kick my shoes into my place. Then I return to Jonas. “Move over,” I order him. He
walks his bare feet across the door, wiggling his back along the floor. I slide down, propping my sock
feet next to his, and lay down on the wood floor next to him.
“What’s up? You don’t usually wait up for me.”
“You’re usually predictable. I don’t need to wait up.”
“Predictable?” Something about that rubs me the wrong way.
“Yes. You go out, come home relaxed, and do it all over again a few times each week. This week,
you haven’t. Why?”
“Why haven’t I gone out to fuck? Really? That’s what you want to know?” I’m being a dick, but I
don’t want to have this conversation with him.
“No, not really,” he says easily, staring up at the high ceiling above us. “I want to know about
your feelings for Maya.”
I suck in a breath, choke on my spit, roll over to cough it out, then lay there gasping, mind
whirling. “What makes you ask me that?”
Jonas rolls his head toward me. “Why wouldn’t I ask it? You asked me the same thing a few days
ago. Only I would argue that you had less reason to ask it of me.”
“Really? How’s that?”
He snorts, “I’m not the one that can’t seem to stop talking about her. You talk about her, a lot. And
tonight, as soon as she walked into the penthouse, she was all you could look at.”
I flop onto my back with a groan. He’s right, and I hate that he is. That I was so obvious. “You can
