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“Hayes, what do you think—?”
“That was a rhetorical question,” he growls and cuts me off and leans toward me.
“Not for me,” I lean forward, too.
He shakes his head at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing and takes a step back. He shoves his fingers through his hair.
“At least you’re consistent,” he mutters under his breath, but the bathroom has great acoustics and it bounces off the wall and hangs between us.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you know how to hold a grudge. And I’ve given you space to do it,” he says.
“You’ve given me space?” I gape at him.
“Yes,” he snarls and steps closer to me. “But there are fucking limits. And you clearly don’t understand them.”
“Oh, I understand just fine,” I seethe.
“No, you don’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be telling another man that you’re not my woman. While his arm is around you.” His eyes narrow, and his hands grip the sink on either side of me.
“Hayes—”
“You must have completely forgotten who I am.” His eyes darken and he leans into me.
“How could I?” I snap.
“Then, did you forget who we are?” He leans against the door and turns the little knob in the handle. His eyes are blazing as he strides toward me.
“I won’t tell you how that felt. But trust me when I say you wouldn’t have liked being in my shoes.”
I flush and glance away from his eyes. I can see the hurt there, and as mad as I am at him, it’s the very last thing I want to do to him.
“Tesoro …” He grips my chin and turns my head until he traps my eyes with his. They are full of determination, and they hold me in place.
“I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. But, don’t get Tyson’s ass kicked because you want to hurt me,” he growls.
Worry tickles the back of my throat.
“As if you’d go around beating up people because he was flirting with me.” I dismiss his threat.
He leans in and puts us nose to nose, and then he rubs the tip of his against mine.
“I absolutely fucking would,” he whispers, and I’m caught between a swoon and pang of worry.
I pull my chin out of his grip. “This isn’t a Kristen Ashley novel. You’re not Dax Lahn. I’m not Circe,” I snap.
He blinks and shakes his head in confusion. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s a book. And all I mean is that I’ve been trying to move on and you won’t let me.” My voice is stiff and lacks conviction. But it’s just a reflection of what’s happening inside of me. I don’t even believe myself anymore.
“Don’t fucking talk about moving on. Not when you don’t mean it,” he says.
“How do you know what I mean?” I gripe.
“You knew when you took this job that I was going to be here. You came anyway. I don’t think you did that because you’re moving on,” he pushes back.
“I took it because I needed it, and it’s perfect. If it had been in Alaska, I would have taken it.”
