“Apparently not.”
I decide to ignore that and ask, “What are you doing down here?”
“Leaving.” His mouth stays in that small smile, and it does really dangerous things to my insides. I guess I’m not too tired for that. “That is generally what people do in parking garages. And what are you doing?”
“I am also leaving,” I say. “I thought we established that’s what people do in parking garages.”
“No, you are not.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“You are exhausted.”
I straighten automatically. “I’m fine.”
His eyes move over me.
Not in the same way they have before. Not the slow, dark assessment that sets my pulse off.
This is purely observational.
“You are not.”
“I am perfectly capable of driving myself home.”
“You’re barely capable of standing,” he says.
I scoff, but then I realize that I’m fully leaning against my car door and flush.
There’s no dignity left to be had.
“Mr. Conti—”
“Mario.” His voice is quiet.
Like in my dreams.
Due to that, I’m a bit more irritated when I say, “I’m perfectly capable of making decisions for myself, and I don’t need anyone… bossing me around.”
“I am not bossing you around,” he says simply.
“You just told me I’m not allowed to drive my own car.”
“You are not allowed to drive when you are this tired.”
“That sounds remarkably like bossing me around.”
“It is common sense.”
“It is condescending.”
“It would be condescending if you were capable of driving safely and I told you not to for another reason.” He takes one step closer. “You are exhausted and incapable of focusing or reacting properly.”
My mouth closes.
I hate that. I hate that he is being so reasonable right now. It makes arguing harder, and frankly, stupid.
I also hate that he looks like this at 7:00 at night after what I know was probably a brutal workday. Dark coat over his suit. White shirt open at the throat. Hair still perfect because apparently stress, time, and basic human fatigue do not apply to him like it does the rest of us mere mortals.
