Page 40 of Playboy’s Purgatory

“I just wanted to get something nice that you and Vanessa could use. You can have a nice night together. I was going to get a movie, but now with streaming and whatever I wasn’t sure,” his explanation makes sense.

It only makes me angrier. My hands clench into a fist, the one still holding the card is shaking.

“I know,” my words are arctic, “I read the card.”

“Why are you so pissed, then?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.

I’m not entirely sure I can blame him for that.

The hand I’m holding the card with makes a slashing motion. “It’s enough, Playboy. You don’t need to do this. No more gifts. No more gestures. It’s not necessary,” I insist. “We can just exist. This town is, in fact, big enough for both of us. As long as you stop being an asshole,” I’m quick to add that last part.

“I can promise you that I will not be an asshole to you,” he says the words so sincerely.

I find myself believing it. Which I know is a mistake. Or, at least, naïve.

“I get it,” I talk like he didn’t say anything, “you had bad intel and were being manipulated.” It takes every ounce of strength I possess not to roll my eyes. “We can just call it good.”

“It’s not good,” Playboy immediately insists. “I owe you and I’m going to make it right.”

“No,” I press, “you don’t need to make anything right. Just change and you can live your life with a clear conscious. That’s all I need. And, anyway,” I try to force my voice into something slightly less murderous, “we’re neighbors. You know, in the strictest and most loosely based definitions of the word neighbors.”

He’s looking at me like I’m speaking another language. It’s for the best, really. Probably.

“It’s done, scales balanced,” I throw out there one more time, making my point crystal clear.

Then I turn on my heel and head right back toward the door. I’m not as angry as I was on the traipse over here. I didn’t even have to slap him, which is kind of impressive.

Just as I reach for the handle to pull it open, a hand lands on the door before I’m caged in from behind by a very muscular body. Playboy’s chest is heaving, every breath causing him to brush against me. My body erupts in goosebumps at the contact which feels more like a tease than a promise.

There’s not nearly enough room, but I still turn around and look at him. His brown eyes are fierce as he studies my face. My heart is beating fast, but it’s not from fear. I’m not even about to start admitting what it is from.

Absolutely not.

I am way too close to this man. It’s practically illegal how close I am.

So close I could easily bury my face in his neck.

So close I can smell his dangerous smokey scent; it’s wrapping around me and making me a little dizzy.

Every breath I take feels like a struggle.

To keep my hands at my sides.

To not kiss him.

To remember he’s an asshole.

“What are you doing?” I hiss out the question while trying to make my glare as menacing as possible.

“You can’t just storm into my place, yell at me, and then leave,” his words contain warmth instead of hostility.

It throws me, momentarily, for a loop. What the hell is he talking about?

Why is his body so hard? Everywhere.

Wait.

No.