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Farrow’s throat rolled with a swallow, her eyes trained on my injured hand as she worked. “The house is paid for, and the deed is under my and my stepmother’s name, but I do pay rent in the form of propertytaxes and half of the utilities. Regardless, I’d gotten myself into a…situation. I have to pay a large fee. I’m still working on it.”
“What did you do?”
But I already knew.
What I really wanted to ask was—why did you do it?
She didn’t seem like the type.
“It’s none of your concern.”
“You’re in my house. Your character is my concern.”
“Should’ve thought about that before you hired someone who tried to steal from you. Allegedly.”
The knots up and down my back began to loosen, even though she still touched me through the film. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I didn’t actually care.
It didn’t factor in my decision-making, though it might become a headache to use another man’s woman.
She squinted. “I’ll repeat myself—it’s none of your concern.”
“Can we make one thing clear?” I rested a hip against the vanity. “Everything you do, everyone you communicate with, and every single fucking breath you take is my business. I made you my business the day I hired you, and I am averygood businessman. Now that that’s out of the way, you can either volunteer the information, or I can extract it in other ways. The choice is yours.”
“What choice? You’re leaving me no leeway.” She stepped back and picked up the phone she’d discarded on the tiles when she’d busted into the bathroom, pocketing it. “You’ll get the information either way.”
I shrugged. “Might as well fess up.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Her nostrils flared. “And I’m not interested in one, either.”
“The male population of the world is surely devastated,” I drawled.
But she seemed completely unbothered by my quip.
Maybe even relieved.
“That’s a pity.” She flashed a grin. “You know how the saying goes…If you can’t handle me at my worst, then I’ve got news for you. My personality will only deteriorate from here on out.”
“That isnotthe correct saying.”
“It’s the correct saying formypersonality.” She dusted off her hands on the apron of her uniform. “Anyway, do you like her?”
Why?
Do you care?
I played dumb. “Who?”
“Audrey Huffborn.”
“It’s Hepburn,” I corrected.
“Not your bride. She is put together and elegant like the real thing, but she’s obviously miserable.” Farrow slanted her head. “So? You into her?”
“Yes,” I lied.
I had to.
