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The door was still open, the aromatic scent of a Chicago alley stealing into the hallway.
“You’ve picked the right place for it.” He sniffed. “Hints of rotten vegetables and”— he paused, reaching for a word—“eau de pee.”
She wanted to smile. He could see the effort in every muscle on her face, but it wouldn’t come.
“I need to go home but…” Stepping out of his greedy embrace, she cast a wary glance over his shoulder.
He took the hint.
“I’ll walk you back.” Closing the door behind him, he moved into the alley, the sounds of the bar now replaced with different sounds. City life. His own breathing. And the cogs of Jules’s brain as she mulled over whatever had bitten her.
He shucked off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. “It’s gotten cold.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw blatant relief sketched on her face as the jacket caped her body. She eased up the clawed grip on her phone and returned it to her sequined purse, but not before he saw the jagged gash across the screen.
“What happened to your phone?”
“I dropped it,” she mumbled.
She headed toward the street and he lolled beside her. Too close, and not close enough.
“You don’t need to walk me home,” she said, her voice mechanical, distant. “Your guests need you.”
“They can survive,” he said tersely. “You’re more important.”
She stopped and turned to him, a flash of fury in her eyes illuminated by the street lights overhead. “Haven’t you heard the stats? Seventy percent of new restaurants fail in the first year. That probably goes up to ninety where the owner can’t be bothered to actually spend time there.”
He welcomed her pissiness. Better that than what he had encountered back at the bar. That version of Jules with her soft, vulnerable eyes made him want to wrap her in his arms again and never let her go. But if he gave in to that protective wrestle, he was going to indulge in every filthy urge and make her cry for other reasons.
Come-so-hard reasons.
Pissy Jules was the best option all round right now. “You’re not walking home alone,” he ground out.
The words sounded almost possessive, so much so that he felt a stir in his groin. The combination of her bad mood, the urge to keep her safe, and how sexy she looked in that dress was arousing him unbearably.Good job keeping it in check, dickhead.Once he got her home and away from him—because let’s face it, the biggest threat to her right now was his boiling libido—he’d be on his way.
A few pin-drop silent moments later, they came to the front door to her building. She fumbled for her keys, fumbled again with inserting the key into the keyhole, then three-for-three, fumbled with turning the knob.
“Righty-tighty,” she muttered. “No, that’s for light bulbs and screws.” She continued turning it the wrong way, all while spitting expletives under her breath. “Bugger, bugger.”
He splayed his hand over hers and opened it. The touch was enough to make her stumble through the now-open door, and he caught her forearm.
“Careful,” he said, more to himself than to her.
With her eyes averted, she shrugged off his jacket and handed it over. “Thanks.”
“I’ll walk you up,” he said, slipping his jacket on so it was clear to both of them he would be on his way as soon as his chivalrous duty had been performed. Because people put on jackets to, you know, go outside.
“You don’t—”
“I do.” He tucked his hand under her elbow, the touch electrifying his every cell once more. He didn’t let go of her arm as he guided her up to the second flight. He took the key and opened her door. No problems with the door knob.
“I’ve got it from here,” she said, still avoiding his eyes.Good girl, look away.If she had any sense of self-preservation, she would close the door and send him packing because he was this close to pushing her against the wall and banging her boneless.
“How did your date go tonight?”
Fuck. The self-preservation thing goes both ways,bischero.
There was that flare of anger again. He wished she’d come right out and say what she was mad about.
