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I chanced one final glance at Zach through the slats and regretted it. He wore a ghost of a smile, his back against the island, one ankle crossed over the other.
With eerie precision, his eyes found mine through the shuttered door.
I jerked back, slamming my head into a can.
He’d figured it out.
He knew.
The bastard knew.
The bright chandeliers blinded me for a moment.
I blinked to adjust my eyes.
I felt bare. Naked and exposed.
I knew what I looked like. With my tattered clothes and my hair pulled back. Tomato stains up and down my arms. A freaking spatula nestled in my fist.
Normally, I wouldn’t care. But I wanted Zach to see me as his equal.
Vera pointed at me, turning her gaze to her guest. “There she is.”
Everything—from her voice to her fingertips—shook.
Zach folded his arms across his chest, the epitome of casual. His presence filled up the room like he’d been carved into it, sculpted in marble.
An immaculate haircut highlighted that thick, glossy tar hair, not a single strand out of place.
With his navy cashmere sweater pulled over a smart dress shirt and pale gray slacks, he would auction for a billion dollars and some change.
A tiny smirk pulled at the right side of his mouth. Almost too slight to see.
He peered down his nose at me, so tall and larger than life. “Mrs. Ballantine?”
Even as he spoke to Vera, his eyes never budged from me. As if I’d somehow escape if he gave me an inch.
The gravity of the situation crashed on me. Back pressed against the shelves. A cornered animal. Utterly humiliated.
Didn’t mean I had to accept it.
I deposited the spatula on a random shelf, jerked my chin up, and met his gaze head-on.
Vera scuttled to his side. “Yes?”
“Privacy, please.”
“Farrow, get you?—”
“No, Vera.” Zach straightened to his full height, stepping away from the island. “Youare leaving.”
“But…”
“I did not ask for your opinion. I asked you to kindly fuck off.”
Holy shit.
He really was pissed.
