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He stiffens and pulls his hand back. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. What do you want to hear, Harper?”
My heart leaps. Oh God. “It was just a poorly phrased question,” I offer quickly. “I should have asked how you feel about that.”
“I guess you should have.”
I suck in a breath, shocked at his sharp tone, and I recognize my misstep in bitter clarity now. Yes, he’s spoken openly about wanting his father dead. We fought over it before he left, but I realize now the reality of seeing his father have a medical emergency has affected him on a deeper level than I thought. And I get it. It’s scary to feel you might be on this Earth and neither of your parents are alive. I’ve lived that. I know the feeling well.
“A man needs to know his woman believes he will do the right thing,” he adds. “I could have killed him many times over the years and I didn’t do it.”
Guilt is back and stabbing me like a pitchfork this time. I said the wrong thing. I’m on a roll now. First the boiling water and now this. “I know,” I say quickly. “It’s just the way you were talking before you went to see him and I can’t blame you for wanting him to pay.”
He studies me for several long beats. “I guess it’s easy to assume I operate like the Kingston family. My father’s blood runs through my veins. I can’t blame you for that.”
I feel those words like a slap, and maybe I deserve it. It really was a stupid question. I don’t think Eric would just watch someone die. He spent years fighting for our country and putting his life on the line for others. “Eric,” I plead.
The waiter appears and Eric hands him his card and then glances at his watch. “I made a reservation at the Chanel store.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I don’t need that kind of extravagance. Thank you, but I just need a make-up counter and a basic department store.”
“I want to take you,” he says, but there’s a coldness to his tone.
“I have plenty of nice things already. The purse you bought me is at least five thousand dollars. I feel bad you spent that on me.”
“I want to take you,” he repeats.
“I don’t even have an established job yet. I can’t live off you.”
“You have a job.”
“I have to prove myself. I have money in the bank. And I’m not going to abuse yours. Most women would and I don’t want you to feel I’m like that.”
“You’re not most women. You’re my woman. I have money. It’s something you have to get used to, but it seems like it’s just another thing you’re not comfortable with about me.”
I blanch. “Wait. What are you talking about?”
“You asked me that too many times today.”
“Why are you so angry with me? And don’t tell me it’s about shopping. I know today has been hard—”
“Do you?”
I breathe out. “Okay, I think we should leave.”
“Fine. We’ll go to my apartment.”
His apartment.
Not home.
Notourapartment. It feels intentional. It feels calculated and I’m officially angry now, too, for about five different reasons. I push to my feet and make sure he doesn’t have the chance to help me with my jacket. I start for the door and he catches my hand before I exit.
“Do not go outside in front of me when we have this shit going on,” he warns, low and tight.
His touch is fire and ice, and flames of anger. I exhale a heavy breath and nod. He opens the door, and Jesse steps in front, guiding us forward.
I start walking and Eric’s still holding onto me, but there is nothing romantic about it, more like possessive and I don’t know why at this point. I’m clearly easily demeaned and dismissed. We arrive at the SUV and Eric opens the rear door. I attempt to enter the vehicle, but he holds me steady, facing him, and just stares down at me. He doesn’t speak and I don’t know what he wants. Time ticks and the air crackles, until finally, he says, “We have a lot to talk about.”
He releases me, expecting me to climb inside and that’s the plan, but not before I say, “I don’t think we do.” Only then do I slide inside the vehicle and scoot to the opposite side of where I entered, my side, away from him.
