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I make a mental plan to visit a damn witch, willing to go to extremes to forget it all happened or have someone put a hex on him. I just need him out of my damn head, and that’s going to be impossible with him right outside of my apartment.
I pause in my pacing, ears perked up when I think I hear something in the hallway. My blood doesn’t heat, my heart rate doesn’t kick up a notch in fear. I feel completely protected with him out there. In fact, the only terror I feel is that my half-brother could hurt him trying to get to me.
I inch closer to the door, quiet as a mouse on soft feet and peer through the peephole. Jude is still standing in the same position as when I left him there over an hour ago. His head tilts slightly, chin angling toward the door, and I wonder if I’ve made a noise or if he can just sense that I’m mere inches away.
There’s no one in the hallway other than my stupidly handsome guard, nothing making noise, and I figure it’s my brain messing with me.
And so the cycle continues. I pace. I look through the peephole, Jude angling his head to the side each time I look out. I fight the urge to open the door and insist he come inside. Then I start to pace again.
I could turn on the television or take a shower, but in my head I’ve convinced myself that he’s going to give in. He’s going to knock and want to talk, and I can’t risk missing it.
As the day drags on, I count nine times that I grab the doorknob. The first couple of times is because I want to pull open the door and remind him what we had—an agreement to have sex and that was it. He didn’t deserve an explanation for what he saw at the bar. He doesn’t own me. He doesn’t get the right to get upset when he sees me flirting with another man.
The last couple of times I find myself reaching for the doorknob is to beg for forgiveness, to explain how my job works and that flirting helps me get more tips. But I can’t do that. One, because I feel guilt over my intentions for that night, and that pisses me off. He was in my head then, forcing me to want to hook up with another guy to try to forget about him.
He’s not forcibly controlling me. It’s all mental, and it’s the same thing my mother felt. Weston Lewis wasn’t a present man. He didn’t show up in front of my mother and demand things of her. He didn’t try to control her life, but he did make her fall in love with him and used the power that emotion carries to exert his power.
But this is different because I’m not in love with Jude Morris. I’m annoyed with his entitlement. The fact that he thinks he has any right to dictate what I do and how I behave is what pisses me off. That’s why I want to confront him. But does that give him even more power? Will letting him know I’m angry make him realize that he has in fact affected me in some sort of way?
I huff before I can stop myself, forgetting that my hand is on the doorknob and my eye is plastered to the peephole. Jude’s face tilts even more, his jaw flexing, and I hate that I realize how sexy he looks, even through the distorted lens in my door.
Men suck.
I push away from the door, determined to forget all about the man on the other side. Instead of starting my pacing route all over again, I force my feet to my bedroom. A hot bath and some calming music will work wonders. It always has in the past.
Just as I’m tossing my dirty clothes into the hamper, my phone rings. I should ignore it. The only calls I get are from Hayden and work, and I can’t stomach my best friend’s jovial mood and wedding preparations right now. I’m sure as hell not going to work, not that I think for a second that Jude would allow me to go if I wanted to. My jaw clenches. I’ve touted myself as independent, a woman who doesn’t need to lean on anyone in life, and what did I do at the first sign of trouble? I ran to a group of men and handed over my literal freedom to them.
I’m such an idiot.
Needing to fight the system I created myself, I answer my phone.
“Hello?” I snap a little angrier than I probably should to a number I don’t recognize, but I swear I’m going to give the person hell on the phone. I don’t give a shit about my car’s extended warranty, but I am in an argumentative mood, and this person is about to get all of that ire.
