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‘Oh, come on,’ I tease. ‘I’m not jealous. Just curious.’
A muscle jerks at the base of his jaw and I wonder if I’ve strayed into territory outside the bounds of what this is. ‘You don’t have to answer,’ I retract immediately, the night’s fairy tale quality disappearing without my consent.
‘It’s fine.’ He shakes his head. ‘No big deal.’
‘You date a lot?’
He looks out of the window. ‘I fuck a lot.’
I frown. ‘Yeah, okay, but dating?’
He’s not looking at me. Frustration bubbles inside me. I unclip my seat belt and, in the spacious limousine’s rear, push up to straddle him. I cup his chin with my hands and drag his face back to mine.
‘Sit back down,’ he says seriously.
‘I want to sit here.’ I feel his hardness beneath me and smile slowly. ‘And I think you want me to sit here too.’
‘Yeah, sure, but I’ve told you, your safety matters to me.’ He presses a kiss to my lips then shifts his hips, unceremoniously toppling me off him.
‘Hey!’ I have to scramble to avoid falling into the footwell. I’m more than a little annoyed.
So is he, evidently. ‘Sit.’ He looks pointedly at the seat beside him.
I purposely ignore him and take the one diagonally opposite. Out of touching distance.
He stares at me and shakes his head, and I feel petty and childish. Emotions zip through me, coming out of nowhere. Uncertainty and doubt. I turn and stare out of my own window, unseeing.
‘I don’t have time for a relationship,’ he says after a moment. I keep looking out of the window. ‘And I’ve...seen how problematic they can be. It’s not for me.’
‘Problematic, how?’
He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Any kind of dependence is a problem.’
I turn to him then, and the determined set of his features hits me like a blade. ‘You don’t like to get too attached to anyone.’
‘Or for anyone to get too attached to me,’ he agrees.
‘This is a control thing?’
‘No. It’s a me thing.’
‘Why?’
He shakes his head tersely. ‘I don’t know, Millie. Do you really have to psychoanalyse me?’
‘How old are you, Michael?’
His expression tightens. ‘Thirty-five. Why?’
‘So, at thirty-five, you’ve never had a relationship. That doesn’t strike you as unusual?’
‘No.’
He doesn’t want to talk about it now; that much is patently obvious. I settle back in my seat and look out at New York as it blurs past me, but my mind is throwing questions forward—questions about Michael and his life, and, despite the fact I’m leaving Ireland soon, I find I want to know the answers. I want to know, just for the sake of knowing. It doesn’t occur to me there’s danger in that.
* * *
The view of Manhattan from his penthouse is spectacular. But I saw it last night. I’m done being a tourist. I’m done with everything that’s not him and me.
