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“No, I’d be okay. I’m really good at picking pockets.”
I jerked my head to look at him. He was smiling kind of softly at me. “You won’t be so good at it without a finger or two.”
He opened the door to the brightly lit lobby, allowing me to enter ahead of him. “You’ve got me,” he murmured as I passed.
I shivered even though I was bundled warmly in my coat and scarf. “I do?”
The doorman at the front desk nodded to Callum and gave me a halfway friendly smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Rose. Madam.” He tipped his hat. “Have a lovely night.”
I barely got a wave in as I was led past so quickly, I had to jog a little to keep up. Callum’s growl was low, but I didn’t miss it.
“Mmm.” His arm pressed against my shoulder as we waited for the elevator. “I’ll have to think of a new profession besides pickpocketing and playin’ bass once I lose my fingers.”
I craned my neck to look up at him. “I would suggest basketball, but you probably need all your fingers for that too. Honestly, you should just wear a coat and gloves.”
“You’re really cute when you’re concerned.” He brought my gloved hand up to his cheek and rubbed it in tight circles. “I’ll just borrow your heat.”
“No. I need it. You can’t have it.”
“Don’t be greedy, Wren. I’ll share anything of mine you want.”
I laughed. “Except your body heat because you have none. I can feel your cold cheeks through my leather gloves. That’s never a good sign.”
The elevator doors slid open. “Come on.” My hand was still in his, and he didn’t seem to want to let go. And I was okay with that. Since I knew all of this was on borrowed time, I let myself live a little fantasy, just for a while.
As the elevator rose, Callum’s gaze locked on me. He was studying me unabashedly. It didn’t exactly make me uncomfortable, but it wasn’t something I was used to. My skin tingled and felt a size too small. My free hand fidgeted with my buttons, then my collar, the one he held itching to move.
“Thank you for sending the car all week. It’s been really nice.”
“You shouldn’t be riding public transportation. It’s not safe for a woman on her own.”
I would have rolled my eyes if he hadn’t sounded so earnest. “I’ve been riding the subway since I was a teenager. The worst thing that ever happened to me was stepping in a puddle of vomit. Everything else is just background noise.”
His hand tightened, and the elevator door opened. His arm shot out to keep the door open, but he didn’t budge. “Do men speak to you? Do they say things?”
“Of course. I saw a guy catcall a grandma last month. I mean, she was well kept for eighty, but she was still eighty. She had a headful of white hair and a face full of wrinkles. Not to mention her orthopedic shoes.” Oh jeez, I was rambling.
His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not a big deal. It’s part of being a woman in a city. It happens. I ignore it.” I stepped out of the elevator and tugged him with me. “Stop worrying about me.”
He took my face in his cold hands. “If I told you to stop worryin’ about me, would you?”
“No.” I had years of experience thinking, dreaming, and worrying about Callum Rose. It would take more than a simple order to unlearn such behavior.
“Then don’t ask me to stop worryin’ about you, Wren. I’m going to. And I’m going to keep sendin’ a car to take you to work, so don’t fight me.”
I didn’t fight him then and there because...well, after tonight, I really doubted he’d care about my transportation. He’d probably rue the day he ever answered my first email, if he didn’t already.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I won’t ask.”
With a sharp nod, he led me to the end of a sleek hallway dotted with only a couple doors. I’d barely taken in the surroundings before he swept me into his apartment and unbuttoned my coat. He was meticulous, slotting each button through its corresponding hole carefully, all the way to where they ended mid-thigh, then he slid it off my shoulders and hung it in a small closet by the front door. His own jacket was haphazardly hooked on the doorknob.
Callum placed his hand on the center of my back, ushering me deeper into the apartment. My mouth went dry as I tried to formulate what I was going to say. As if I hadn’t thought about this nonstop all week.
His apartment was stark. Barely furnished, nothing on the walls, almost no color. There was a low, gray couch with a glass coffee table in front of it. A stand holding a row of guitars was propped beside a black console table with a small TV on top. The windows were almost floor to ceiling, but they were covered in those temporary paper blinds builders put in new houses. The floor was covered with a plush, creamy carpet.
