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ChapterTwenty-One
The crew was pissed off.They demanded we tell them why our mics had been cut off, and we pretended we didn’t know, and so eventually, Tailsburry decided to blame the connection. It made sense that there was a signal disruption—the only thing that made sense because why would we, two agents of the ODP, turn off our microphones at the same time on purpose?
Wouldn’t I like to know, too.
I took a moment to change the fancy dress for more comfortable clothes, and I left the gun in the nightstand drawer, too, because Tailsburry didn’t ask for it back, and I kinda wanted to keep it. I took off everything except the necklace and Sandra’s bracelet. That thing was my armor against Dominic for now, and I would wear it proudly until we went back home.
The crew stayed in our room until midnight while we gave them every small description and went over everything that was said at that table. Through it all, I never looked at Dominic, never allowed myself to get distracted by the fact that I could feel his eyes on my face every second. But it did piss me off because I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand him.
Was he afraid that I’d say something about the note he wrote for me? Did he trust me that little?
But then again, if he didn’t trust me, he’d have never written those words on his napkin in the first place.
So, what exactly did all that staring mean?
Tailsburry told me that I’d done great, and the other agents nodded their agreement. I told them the same thing I said to Dominic the night before—I was doing my damn job, and I didn’t need to be congratulated for pretending to be a spoiled brat who pouted a lot.
When they finally left, I made my way to the bedroom, so ready to call it a day. I was exhausted, not physically, but by my own thoughts. My own confusion. I put on Dominic’s shirt and my pajama shorts, I cleaned the makeup off my face, and I lay down to sleep, too lazy to take a shower. I’d do it in the morning, anyway.
I did take a few minutes to record in my journal, though. Just marks, and some words to describe some feelings, not all of them. It helped a lot in clearing my head. When I had everything written down and organized, my own thoughts made more sense. Dominic didn’t have to like it. Nobody did. This was for me.
Minutes after I was in bed, safely under the blanket with my eyes closed, he came into the room. My heart did its thing again, like always, but the metal around my wrist gave me comfort, reminded me that he wouldn’t smell the excitement bubbling in my chest at the idea that he was about to get in the same bed as me.
He didn’t, though. He walked all around it, purposely slamming his feet against the floor, as if he wanted me to hear him. I didn’t open my eyes at all, but I felt his presence when he came all the way to the head of the bed, stopped for a heartbeat, then left something on the nightstand near the lamp.
Two seconds later, he walked out of the room and closed the door.
My eyes opened to find two bars of chocolate on my journal, one big and one small. My stomach burned with rage so suddenly, I pushed the blanket off and was on my feet before I could blink.
Why was he bringing me chocolate now? Because he wished he hated me?
The balls on this guy!
Anger brought the blood in my veins to damn near boiling point. I grabbed the chocolate and strode out of the room, seeing everything in shades of red.
He was there, standing in front of the windows in the dark, with only one small lamp turned on. He had a glass of whiskey with him, and he still wore those black trousers. His other hand was in his pocket while he played with whatever it was he always played with in there. He didn’t turn when I stepped into the living room, but I wasn’t really expecting him to.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” I put the chocolate bars on the table and turned around to leave.
“I’m sorry, Teddy.”
I swear, someone must have flipped the switch of movement on my body because I stopped dead in my tracks.
My mind buzzed.
No, that couldn’t be. I hadn’t heard him right.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he continued, and I turned around to look at him just to convince myself that he was actually saying those words.
He faced me, too, one shoulder leaning against the window, the lights of the city outside drenching his face in blue. Damn, he was a sight to see.
But that wasn’t all. It was the look in his eyes, the way his shoulders were hunched—his shoulders were never hunched before—the way his voice sounded. So…sad.
Despite my protest, more than half the anger drained from me in an instant. It hurt to see him like that, and I didn’t even understand it. I shouldn’t have cared if he was happy or sad.
“What do you want, Dominic?” I asked, and my whisper broke. “Just tell me what you want because I don’t understand it. You make no sense to me.”
He looked at me intently for what felt like hours but must have only been seconds. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t do anything except watch me through those eyes that looked blue from the outside lights.
