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Callie’s eyes soften and I hate it. She sees this weakness at the heart of me. Why does her opinion matter so much? It shouldn’t. She’s someone I’m supposed to destroy. She’s a fucking reporter.
“I don’t need hobbies.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend.
“Everyone needs—”
“I’m not everyone. Stop trying to fit me into a box, Thompson. I’m not part of your world. I don’t want to be.”
Hurt flashes over her expression and disappears. I hate it.
This is what you wanted.
“Why don’t we get the check?” she says. She pushes back from the table before I can respond and walks over to where Paul is manning the counter that doubles as a bar.
He smiles at something she says and nods. Her face lights up. Something ugly makes my stomach turn. Fuck this. I chug the rest of her beer, then mine, but the alcohol doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t stop the ache sitting just behind my ribs.
I drop a crisp hundred on the counter on the way out and nod at Paul. “See you tomorrow.” I stride out of the restaurant and Callie follows.
“Goodnight, J—Mr. Crown,” she says softly.
I turn. Lou is already opening the door of the car. “Get in the car, Thompson.” I jerk my head toward the interior. She bites her lip. I want to bite it too.
“I think I should walk.”
The thought of her alone, walking home in the dark, makes my pulse thud. “Get in the car,” I repeat. “You’re not walking.”
She sighs and precedes me into the space. It’s too small inside. How have I never noticed that before? I make a mental note to get a bigger car. Maybe a limo. She could sit at one end, and I could take the other. That way I wouldn’t be able to see her hands twisting in her lap, her wary eyes when she looks at me.
I’m too aware of my loud breaths in the quiet interior, her scent, her perfect cheekbones, her long lashes. I shut my eyes and press my head back against the seat. That makes it worse. The car is filled with her and I want to pull her onto my lap, suck on her neck, tell her I’m sorry, that I don’t know how to be anything other than who I am, that I want her. That all I want is her. Fuck.
We ride in silence the ten blocks to her apartment. I help her out of the car before Lou can come around. I wave him away and shove my hands into my pockets while she loops her scarf around her neck.
“So this is where you live?”
It’s a neat brownstone. Slightly worn around the edges, a little bit of stone crumbling on the steps, the bars over the first-floor windows rusted in one place. But there are lights on in most of the windows. A cat watches us from the second floor.
“There. That’s our cat, Samson.” She points. “But I guess you probably knew that.”
“I didn’t know about the cat.” An asinine thing to say, but the rush of blood in my ears is making me stupid.
The side of her mouth tips up slightly and I want to roar in triumph. But her smile is gone as quickly as it came.
“Thompson, I—”
“Jonah,” she says at the same time. “I mean, Mr. Crown.”
“You can call me Jonah.” I didn’t mean to say that.
“Okay, Jonah,” she says slowly, testing it out. She’s pleased. The sound of my name on her lips makes me shudder.
Kiss her. I jolt, and she gives me a strange look. My brain is clamoring for me to claim her. She would taste delicious. I know it. My gaze drops to her mouth. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Would she let me? More importantly, would she like it? Would she sway against me? Would she let me hold her up? Desire beats through my blood. But kissing? Fuck, I must be going insane. I don’t kiss women. I take a step back. She’s my employee. And a reporter. A fucking reporter. I need to get a hold of myself.
“Jonah, I—”
“Good night, Thompson. Don’t be late tomorrow.”
23
Callie
