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He stares at me, then says, “Did anyone see you come in?”
“No.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been improving my surveillance skills.”
His stare turns murderous. “That wasn't a compliment.”
“I took it as one.”
“Stay here.”
He disappears.
I lower my hands. “Where would I go?”
No answer.
I hear him moving through the house. He's checking everything, making sure I really came alone. That nobody followed me. That I didn't bring danger into his house.
Shit. He’s going to find out how I got inside.
This was probably a—
Nope. I'm not going to admit this was a bad idea yet. That’s too premature.
Roman returns several minutes later, the gun no longer in hand.
His mood is still pissy.
“I’m sure you know how I got inside.”
He glowers at me.
“It’s not my fault you left the door unlocked.”
Silence.
I wait.
“You should be mad at yourself.”
His brows lower. His resting murderous face is now a scary-looking murderous face.
Uh-oh. Wrong thing to say.
“I'm mad at you.”
“Sure. But also at yourself.”
He walks toward me.
I take one step back. I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me. It’s more that Roman walking toward me with that expression does things to my nervous system that probably require medical supervision.
