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I want him—this confident, sexy, older man—to focus on me, to want me.
It feels like a challenge, one I can’t pass up. I sidle closer to him and press my body against his. My hands drag across his muscled biceps and I shiver. I have to tip my head back to stare up at his eyes, and maybe I expect to see lust brewing there, but there’s nothing but annoyance. His lips—the lips I want to taste—are pulled in a tight line. His dark brows are furrowed. He’s looking down at me with a level of disdain usually reserved for snot-nosed kids, not a woman you find irresistible.
“What’d you take?” he asks again.
“I don’t—”
Michael laughs and slaps his shoulder. “It’s a party drug, James. It’s not going to kill her.”
No. This isn’t right.
I shake my head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t t-take…anything.”
I think my words will clarify things, but he shakes his head and steps back, taking me with him. “Right. C’mon, let’s go.”
Celeste protests, yanking on my other arm. “She doesn’t have to go with you!” She turns to Michael. “Mon amour, tell him!”
The searing stare James aims at Michael is enough to override whatever spell Celeste has over him. He puts his hands in the air in innocence and tells Celeste to let go of me. She pouts, but finally releases me. I don’t even get the chance to say goodbye before James is pulling me through the crowd so fast I’m tripping over my feet.
I tell him to slow down, that his hold on my arm is hurting me, but I don’t think he can hear over the music—or maybe he doesn’t care.
His car is waiting out by the curb and he doesn’t let go of me until I’m inside and safely buckled. He rounds to the driver’s side and I stare down at where his hand was touching my arm. My skin still tingles.
When he gets in, I can feel the anger emanating off him. Every movement he makes is done with a little too much force. The engine roars, his foot hits the gas, and we’re speeding away from the party without a second glance.
“We didn’t have to leave,” I say, wondering if that’s why he’s upset. The party was still in full swing. His warm eyes glare over at me and I get the message loud and clear: shut up.
When we pull up to the curb in front of the co-op, I’m dipping in and out of sleep, content to stay right where I am, but James opens my door and hauls me out of the car. His hands are too rough, not at all how I imagined they would be. He lets go of me and I sway. By now it’s impossible to walk on my heels, so I stop and yank them off one at a time. When I stand back up, James dwarfs me even more.
I smile.
He frowns and nods to the house.
“At least your roommates are asleep.”
“My roommates?” I ask, confused. “Do you know them?”
He sighs and shakes his head, continuing past me up the front path. I think he’s just going to walk me to the front door, but he continues inside and up the stairs behind me. I’m not sure what we’re doing.
James Ashwood is in my house, which probably only means one thing.
“Are we going to have sex?”
Is that why we left the club?
“Just concentrate on walking,” he chides.
I think I used to amuse him, but now he’s treating me like his annoying kid sister.
“This is my room,” I say, presenting my door with a proud smile.
“Hey!” someone shouts from behind a closed door. “SHUT UP OUT THERE!”
I barely manage to stifle a laugh as James opens my door with another sigh—God, I must really be exasperating—and then we’re both standing in my small room. It’s a little messy, but I’m not embarrassed. I’m proud of how I decorated it. One entire wall is covered in framed prints I bought off one of my roommates. She would have given them to me for free, but I love her art and wanted to support her.
“It’s called a gallelly—garelly—gallery wall.” I laugh, pointing to it.
“Can you get ready for bed on your own?” he asks, ignoring me.
I move to a bookshelf I found on the side of the road. Some college kid was moving home for summer and didn’t need it anymore. I took it, sanded it down, and painted it a sunflower yellow. “And this is where I put my books. Well, just the paperbacks. I have a Kindle too.”
“Brooke.”
Right.
I turn away from my bookshelf to find him standing with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t belong in my room with the art prints and yellow bookshelves. He’s much too serious. Right now, he’s scowling. Scowling, scowling, scowling—it’s all he ever does. His tuxedo is so black it burns. The light in his eyes is so intoxicating I want to step closer, press onto my toes, and get a really good look at them, just so I’ll know exactly what shade of brown I should make my coffee in the morning.
