“Is there anything else you need, Dean Stone?” she asked.
The formality of the title sounded deliberate now. I leaned back in the chair again, studying her carefully. A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, though there was nothing particularly amused about the feeling behind it.
“No,” I said slowly.
Then my gaze dropped briefly to the phone still resting in her hand before returning to her face.
“But now,” I added, “I’m curious about one thing.”
Her expression stayed blank. “What?”
My voice dropped. “Who the fuck were you just calling baby?”
The question sat between us, and something told me the answer would make everything worse.
“That,” she said, her voice sharp, “is none of your fucking business. I’m getting tired of telling you that.”
Her anger flared so quickly it almost pulled my attention away from the question burning in my chest.
Almost.
“None of my business?” I repeated.
Her chin lifted. “Yes.”
I stepped closer, my voice roughening. “Everything about you is my business.”
“So that guy on the phone,” I continued slowly, “the one you were callingbaby—”
“Stop.”
“—what the fuck is he to you?”
“You have no right to interrogate me,” she snapped.
“Watch me.”
Her eyes flashed. “You really think you still have that kind of right over my life?”
I stepped around the desk before she could finish the sentence. The movement alone made her go still. It was a familiar reaction. One I remembered too well. Five years hadn’t erased that instinct. She noticed the change in distance immediately.
“Don’t,” she warned.
But her voice had dropped slightly.
Not fear. Something else. Something tighter.
“Don’t what?” I asked.
“Don’t come closer.”
I stopped a step away from her. Near her now, I could see the way her breathing had changed and notice that she hadn’t actually stepped back.
“You look nervous,” I said.
“I’m fucking irritated.”
“Yeah?”
