And I almost laugh when I realize he’s struggling to keep up. I’m not doing one-thirty-three on the highway anymore.
But a cool seventy in a forty is apparently enough to send my fiancé into cardiac arrest.
The entire drive, I can practically feel his panic through my rearview mirror.
Good.
Maybe that makes me a terrible person. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m angry.
Whatever the reason, I don’t slow down.
When we finally pull into the private underground parking of Levi’s building, I jump out before he’s even fully parked.
The elevator ride feels too slow.
I unlock the penthouse door and make it halfway inside before I hear hurried footsteps behind me.
A thrill races down my spine.
God. Maybe there really is something wrong with me.
The door slams shut behind us, and I turn around.
Levi is furious.
Not his usual polished, controlled irritation. Not the composed expression he wears for investors and boardrooms. This is something raw. Something dangerously close to panic.
His eyes immediately find my hair. “Why did you cut it so short?”
I shrug, tossing my purse onto the counter. “Itmade sense.”
His jaw flexes. “Made sense?”
“Now I don’t have to worry about it for another two months.”
The exasperation that leaves him is almost comical.
I smile. “You look angry.”
His eyes widen. “Of course, I’m fucking angry.”
I blink. “In my defense—”
“There is no defense for what you just did.”
I grin wider.
His nostrils flare.
“Why?” I ask innocently.
The look he gives me makes me want to curl away. “You were doing eighty-five in a fifty, Cece.”
“Seventy-two,” I correct.
“What the fuck does it matter?” His voice echoes through the penthouse.
For a second, neither of us speaks. Then his shoulders drop. The anger cracks.
