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She told herself it was a rude intrusion, that was all. He didn’t belong here. He belonged in that flat of his, sharp and chilly. Not in a room of books and cozy throws, soft woven rugs, and the promise of plants come spring.
Timoney ignored that melting sensation, molten hot between her legs, that suggested she was interested in other intrusions, the ruder the better.
This was for her, she reminded herself sternly. She would indulge Crete, but only to please herself. Because she hadn’t imagined she would ever be alone with him again. And this was her opportunity to ask him all the things she’d always wanted to know, but had been too afraid—or perhaps too overawed—to ask while they’d been together.
And this time, he might actually answer.
He might deny it, but she knew that he would leave. Possibly as soon as he realized that she was not the girl he’d known. That he’d made her into the woman she was now, and he might not like what that meant.
But before he understood that shift, he would answer a few questions.
Like the one she’d asked the version of him she carried around in her head every night since she’d last seen him.
“So. Crete.” She cleared her throat. “Why are you like this?”
