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How tall he is.
The top of his dark-haired head almost reaches the top of the doorjamb. Oh, and his shoulders aren’t far behind in the size department either. They span the breadth of the door.
How can he be so large and masculine and beautiful and yet so cruel and mean?
Anyway.
“So as you know, I’m stuck here,” I begin. “At St. Mary’s. For the next two months, I mean.”
“You are.”
“And nothing I can do will change that. Correct?”
He stares at me for a beat or two before confirming, “Correct.”
“Not even if I’m willing to do the extra work and expedite things or something similar.”
“Not even that.”
Asshole.
“So there’s no point then,” I say in conclusion.
“Of what?”
“Of arguing with you,” I explain. “Or bickering with you or fighting with you. Or sneaking into your cottage to convince you to let me go. Because you’ll just give me more detention. And quite possibly threats too.”
His eyes gleam then. At ‘threats.’
Maybe at the memory of all the things he said to me last week in his cottage.
I’m pretty sure things are flickering in my eyes as well. Things that might not bode well for this mission that I have, things like anger and frustration and hurt. So I blink and go on, “So if I’m going to be stuck here, then I might as well not make my life more difficult, right?”
He takes his time absorbing my words.
Which I understand.
I mean, this may be the very first time I’ve said something to him without any hint of sarcasm or anger or belligerence. He might be a little thrown. A little suspicious.
Although I can’t tell by just looking at his face.
It’s as always carefully arranged into neat, sharp, emotionless lines. Then, “So this is you waving the white flag then.”
I jerk back. “No.”
Again, that was loud and abrupt but also instinct.
A knee-jerk response to his comment.
Because there’s no way I’ll ever wave the white flag and surrender. I declared war four years ago and I’m not backing down.
But he doesn’t need to know that. Or he doesn’t need to know everything about it.
“Of course not,” I say in a much calmer tone. “I never wave a white flag.”
“Because you hold a mean grudge.”
I’m not sure why but his words — that were mine four years ago — make me blush.
They make me feel… childish.
Although back then, I had every reason to say them. I had every reason to be mad at him, to hate him.
But in any case, I inch up my glasses and go on. “Yes. I do. But I also take breaks.”
“From all your war waging and strategic plotting.”
Don’t narrow your eyes, Poe.
Do not narrow them.
“Yes. It can be tiring.”
“I don’t blame you. All that work to make someone’s life hell can be a great burden,” he deadpans.
I spend the next four to five seconds trying not to clench my teeth. Then, “So this is me saying that I’m tired and taking some time off.” Before I can stop, I add, “This absolutely does not mean that our war is over in any way, shape or form. We’re just on a break.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t lie about that.
I won’t.
It just goes against everything I believe in and stand for when it comes to this man.
“I see,” he murmurs.
“So?” I ask, exhaling. “Are we? On a break then. A temporary truce, if you will.”
For a second, I think I should hold out my hand for him to shake but I decide against it. Because that would be too much and completely unbelievable. There’s no way I am ever going to let him touch me.
There will be no touching between us.
Ever.
So I simply stand here, in the middle of his office, and wait for him to respond.
And when it comes it’s completely anti-climactic. “Take a seat.”
“What?”
He unfolds his arms and stands up straight, his expression still cool. There’s no hint at all that he’s heard me or that we’ve been talking about something important these past few minutes.
“I’d like you to do some lines,” he says, walking toward his desk, his polished loafers coming closer.
The sight of them makes me clench my thighs for a second before I say, “But what about what I said?”
He rounds the desk and I turn to follow his journey. Again, ignoring me completely, he commands, “I want you to write a one-line apology.”
“What apology?”
“For breaking into my cottage last week.”
At this, I forget about what I said and focus on what he’s saying. “You want me to write a one-line apology for breaking into your cottage last week?”
Standing by his leather chair, he gives me a dispassionate look. “And keep writing it until you fill ten pages with it.”
My voice is loud. “Ten pages?”
“You’ll do this every day, for an hour, until the end of the week,” he finishes.
