Page 36 of Anton

One corner of my mouth lifts, and I expect her to laugh it off. The thought of her in my kitchen, making herself at home, should be ridiculous.

Except now I can’t stop picturing it.

“Maybe.” She grins like she might actually do it.

Good luck. This was a onetime deal. You’re never coming here again.

I study her, trying to make sense of her concern and why she keeps looking at me as though I’m worth the effort.

What would that even feel like? Having someone care? Caring back?

A scoff leaves me.

“What was that?” A puzzled look crosses her face.

“Just wondering how you always manage to get involved in things that don’t concern you.”

Her hand lands on her hip. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?” I pin her with a hard stare and close the distance between us until barely any space remains.

“Push people away when they try to get close.”

I hook two fingers beneath her chin and angle her face up, staring at that pretty pink mouth I can’t stop thinking about. “Do you always psychoanalyze your friends, printsessa?”

“Oh, we’re friends now?” Her fingertips travel my forearm, awakening a hunger I resent myself for having. “I knew you’d come around.”

My mouth flattens as I release her and step back, irritated by how pleased she looks with herself.

“Here.” I shove the bottle toward her.

She accepts it and brings it to her lips, watching me over the rim as she drinks. Then she lets her eyes wander across the bare counters and empty corners of the kitchen.

“Do you have people who come in and clean? My parents have a full-time staff, so I figured you would too.”

“I don’t.” I lean back against the opposite counter and fold my arms, wanting to kick her out right about now. “I don’t like people in my space. When the house needs cleaning, I borrow one of my brothers’ people. They do the job and leave. That’s how I like it.”

“So no one ever stays here?”

“No.”

She gives me a slow nod. “I see.”

What the hell do you see? Hmm? Pity? Is that you pitying me? Because I’m fine. Being alone suits me.

She takes another sip, but I can see another question forming, her curiosity pushing her to dig deeper and figure me out. But there’s nothing for her to find.

“You’ve always lived alone?”

Here we fucking go.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“No.”

Her fingers curl around the bottle as she watches me, clearly debating whether to ask the next question on her mind.