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Silence answers her.
I face him head-on and lock eyes with him, clinging to every ounce of strength I have inside me.
Slowly, he nods.
“It’s settled, then? No take backs?” Tarrah steps between us, her head bouncing from me to him as sudden—and confusing—tension swirls between us like we’re about to enter the octagon.
“I’m in.” I blow out an exasperated breath, already drained from his presence. Does Elijah ever get tired of being so powerful just by standing there?
“Good.” Tarrah hops back and claps. “You’re free to speak now.”
“What?” I ask, finally tearing my attention away from my pensive new houseguest.
Elijah drops the suitcase by his feet and takes a single step toward me as Tarrah explains, “I insisted he let me do the talking. God knows this one is charming, but I knew none of his tricks would work on you.” She giggles, but the sound gets caught in her throat as she inches toward the door. “Okay, I’ll let you two get down to orientation, or whatever. Bye!”
I blink, bringing the closed door in and out of focus. Did she just…
Steeling myself, I turn to face Elijah, but I’m not prepared for the new blast of heat radiating from him, especially from this close.
I lick my lips, and his attention drops there as I squawk, “There’s no orientation.” I clear my throat and attempt to put distance between us, but he just follows me like a mirror. “All you need to know are the things I already told you and that there’s no laundry in the building. There’s a laundromat around the corner, though, and it’s perfect because you can wait for your clothes at the coffee shop right next to it.”
His lips twitch, but that’s the only indication I get that lets me know he’s listening. Is he ever going to speak?
The intensity of his silence makes me squirmy.
“You don’t like dogs?” That’s the first thing he asks. They’re the very first words out of his mouth, and they’re accusatory, like I’m some monster.
“I like dogs,” I defend myself. “What I don’t care for are the massive amounts of hair and splashes of water out of their bowls that they scatter around my apartment. Micah’s dog always used to make such a mess.”
He makes a sound that can only be described as indifferent.
I start to turn when Elijah speaks up again, making the hair on my arms stick up.
“What happened to the tower of death by boredom?” He smirks, and fire coaxes the devil from the charcoal depths of his eyes.
I lift a brow and follow the direction of his nod toward the window. A potted plant now sits in that far corner, but it wasn’t there before. “Are you referring to the stack of books that used to be there?”
He answers me with silence.
“I put them in my room.” I cross both arms over my chest and huff. “I figured the great Elijah Hastings would be happy not to have to look at those biographies and self-help books.” I roll my eyes and just can’t resist an extra jab. “It’s like you’re allergic to intellect and culture.”
He makes a strangled noise that I think might be a taunting snort. “I’m cultured enough from real-life experiences. I don’t need books when I’ve been all over Europe. I’ve actually stood in front of phenomena like the Eiffel Tower and the Parthenon. But I guess reading about them is the next best thing.” He winks, and I grate my teeth.
My gut twists with jealousy.
Of course, he’s only visited amazing places in the world because of the tours Fusion Bounds went on. I haven’t been awarded such a luxury. The most exotic places my waitressing career has taken me have been Hell’s Kitchen and Tribeca.
I square my shoulders and toss back, “You didn’t spend those trips immersing yourself in the culture or learning the native tongue, though. All you did was stick your tongue down the natives’ mouths and prance around like you’re the king of Europe.”
“Did that make sense to you, Pumpkin Pia?” He tilts his head, doubt and a hint of amusement etched into the furrow of his brows.
Oh, he went there.
The asshole went and dug himself a grave by using that nickname on me again. It’s the snarky one he gave me when I threw up after having inhaled a pumpkin spice latte. Lucky me, he was here when the unfortunate incident occurred, and he clearly refuses to let me forget it.
I liked it better when he didn’t talk at all.
“It was a good burn,” I insist. “I’m not surprised your feeble brain didn’t follow my logic. You’re much like the poor, unwitting souls you left in your wake across Europe.”
