Page 100 of Unsuitable

He blows out a breath. “Does this reign of silence have an end date?”

“No.”

“And what about at work? Are you going to freeze me out there, too?”

I tip my chin in his direction and stare at his hands on the steering wheel. “I can be professional, if you can. We can talk to each other at work, about work. But, outside of that, you and I don’t exist to each other.”

I dip my chin into my chest. I hear him sigh again. But he doesn’t say anything more.

He pulls up to the front of his house, and the second he presses the brake, I’m out of the car.

Fast-walking through the bouncing rain, I shove my hood back once I’m under the safety of the porch. I unzip my raincoat and pull it off, and then I take my wellies off.

Leaving my wellies on the porch, I take my raincoat with me and let myself in the house. Crossing the big hallway, I open the door to the coat closet and hang up my coat along with my bag but not before getting out my phone, which I slip into the pocket of my dress.

Shutting the door, I turn around, and Kas is standing there.

“Jesus!” I jump. I press a hand to my chest to calm the heart he just nearly killed.

But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t smile or say a word. He just stands, staring at me.

I shift uneasily, moving my stare from his, unable to take the intensity in his eyes.

My eyes wash over him. His hair is damp from the rain, and there’s a light sheen on his skin. And, for the first time since seeing him, I notice how tired he looks. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his eyes themselves look tired and listless.

Even still, he looks beautiful.

I hate that.

Glancing past him, I spy the trail of water he let in. The water I’ll have to clean up.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” I tell him in a pissed off tone.

He doesn’t even give the mess a glance. “Talk to me.” There’s a pleading edge to his voice, which I ignore.

“About the mess you’ve made?” I gesture a hand to the water he walked in.

He makes an exasperated sound. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t curse at me.” I frown.

He laughs a humorless sound, which raises my hackles. “I want to talk about last night.”

“I don’t.”

“Daisy,” he growls my name.

“Mr. Matis,” I say in a patronizing tone.

“Talk. To. Me.” His words are gritted, like his jaw.

“Is it work-related?”

“No.”

“Then, no.” I push past him, heading for the kitchen.

I’m being childish, I know, but I don’t care because I’m mad as hell.