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When I look at her, my left hand still fisted by my side, I reply, “I’m angry.”
“Why? He didn’t call you a hooker.” A smile cracks through the gloom of the car.
I chuckle. “No, he didn’t.”
Sliding just a little closer, she says, “I appreciate you fighting for me, standing up for my honor, and all those amazing chivalrous things. But you don’t have to be my protector. It’s not your job or your responsibility.”
“I—”
“I know you want to help.” I’m captivated by the way the tips of her fingers tap against her chest and then slide over her delicate neck. She reaches for me, gently prying my fist open and then pressing her palm to mine. “I’m not something you can continue to check off your daily agenda. If you want to spend time with me . . .” Even in the shadows of the SUV, I spy the sweetest pink creeping onto her cheeks. She looks down, but when she gathers herself together again, she looks me in the eyes. “I’d very much like that, but your duty is done, Loch.”
“So what you’re saying is that you do want to go to dinner?”
She bursts out laughing, resting her head back with a smile that lights up my night. I don’t even think she realizes her fingers have curled around my hand when she asks, “How do you feel about staying in tonight?”
“Staying in with you sounds like a better plan.”
Just my luck.
16B would happen to be walking into the building behind us. I hold my arm in front of the elevator doors while they walk on, then join them. She drags her tongue over her full upper lip. “Thank you,” she whispers to me when she passes.
I keep my eyes on Tuesday or the shiny metal walls of this box. I will purposely avoid her at all costs. Tuesday has been a real sweetheart, but I have a feeling she’ll get some of her bite back if pushed too far.
The other woman doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s staring at me. Desperate for my attention, she shifts, aligning herself with me. My eyes flick to Tuesday in the reflection, who appears to be stuck in an eye roll.
I restrain a smirk, but barely.
16B glides off the elevator like she’s walking the runway but makes sure to say, “Good niiight,” to me as she exits.
Fuck, this won’t go over well.
The doors close, and Tuesday comes behind me. From behind my ear, she whispers, “Good niiight.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
She’s laughing, walking around the elevator like she finally has the run of the place. I turn around. “Who’s the model?” Her voice dances between teasing and genuine.
I don’t blame her for being curious. I’d be asking all about some dude if he acted like that with her. I reply, “Long story.”
The doors open, and she walks into the hall but stops to wait for me. “You know . . .”
Here it comes. Fortunately, she’s turned my mood around, and I can enjoy a little playful banter with her. “I do know. I know a lot.”
“And so humble, too, Mr. Westcott.” Her tone stays light, bordering on a giggle.
“I try to remember my roots.”
“Why do I have a feeling your roots were never humble?”
Money never meant bragging or above others in my family. She’ll see that when she meets my mother . . . Wait. My feet stop ten feet shy of my front door. Why would she meet my mom?
She keeps walking like she’s been here a million times before instead of once. Stopping in front of the door, she turns back, her brows cinching together as she waits for me.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I need to get her out of my head and realign my goals. As I unlock the door and she walks into my apartment, I realize there’s one fatal flaw to my plan.
I just told her she’s staying with me.
Does telling her she’s coming home with me equal a temporary situation, transitional, or moving in? Running my hand through my hair, I grumble, “Ah, fuck.” We probably should have put rules into place before making a drastic decision like this.
Too late . . .
She rushes to the windows, pressing her hands against the glass to look at the skyline. Glancing back at me, she says, “It’s more stunning at night.”
I close the door, locking it. “It is,” I say, making my way to see the view as if I don’t have the option every day. The thing I don’t do is leave fingerprints or, worse, handprints on the glass.
But it’s hard to be bothered when seeing the pure joy in her eyes. I add, “I’m rarely home during the day, so this is my view most of the time.”
She turns around, her back pressed against the glass. “It’s magical.”
