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He’s sittingin my room again.
On that damn armchair.
Watching me.
It’s the first thing I’ve noticed every morning.
“You awake?”
“Unfortunately,” I murmur, turning in the bed. “Slept in here again?”
I can just make out the smile that brightens his face, the slight huff of laughter, but other than that, he doesn’t move.
It’s been three days since the car crash, and he’s been here almost every moment. If he’s not here, Sebastian isn’t far. I haven’t taken too kindly to that. I’m too cooped up, and with that, feeling too watched.
What’s worse is how Beckett has kept me at arm’s length.
“You do remember you have a bedroom, right?”
“Yeah. Just prefer this one.”
That isn’t a lie.
Most nights we would end up here. I always thought it was because it was in a more secluded part of the penthouse, but apparently not.
“How you feeling?”
“Better,” I say, pushing myself up.
My muscles react, begging me to take it slower as they pull against one another. While I got lucky, my body is tender from the assault of the impact, and the headache I never thought I’d get rid of finally receded beautifully yesterday.
He regards me from his spot. He sits lounged back in the chair; ankle crossed at the knee. His black trousers have pulled up his leg, while his shirt hangs loosely, not fully buttoned up. His hair is wet, which tells me he left at some point to shower and prepare for the day ahead.
“Fancy going out today?”
I watch him suspiciously across the room. I want to run for the door at the idea, but I feel there’s an ulterior motive. Clearly, he notices my hesitation and stands in reaction. He moves across the room, advancing for me.
“I asked you a question, darling girl.”
“I know. I’m just trying to work out the hidden agenda.”
“No agenda.”
I cock a brow.
“No agenda,” he reiterates.
“Where would we go?”
“Where do you want to go? The city’s yours.”
I can’t resist the snort that exudes from me. This city isn’t mine—not how I want it to be—and I know the sentiment wasn’t meant how I’m taking it, but I can’t help the bitterness that tinges the back of my throat.
“Bad choice of words.”
“Course it was.”
“Someone’s in a good mood today,” he admonishes sarcastically, not quite able to resist the slight inflammation of irritation in his words. “Which is exactly why you need to get out of here.”
