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Blue eyes that have no bottom.
“Tired?” His voice is low as if to keep the conversation strictly between the two of us.
“Yeah. It feels like I got run over by a car,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
It has the opposite effect, though, and instead, little lines form between Trent’s brows.
“I’m so sorry about that.”
It’s not the first time he’s apologized, and it probably won’t be the last. I thought I’d enjoy the moment, but I don’t. It lost its novelty after the first time, and now, I just want things back to how they were, minus the animosity.
“It’s really not your fault,” I point out.
“But it could be,” he admits on a sigh.
This is the second time he’s made a cryptic comment like that.
“What does that mean?”
His eyes dart to the front of the car. “Not now. But I’ll explain back at the loft.”
I give him a little nod to show him I understand. Whatever he has to say or confess shouldn’t be done in front of his driver.
Makes sense.
I know that Trent rubs elbows with some powerful men.
This could be about that.
Maybe he pissed someone off.
I shiver at the thought.
“Cold?”
“No.”
He moves in his seat, and his body slides closer. Our legs touch. His hand grazes mine.
The shifting makes it more pronounced, and I wonder what he is doing, but then he pulls his coat off. He’s making sure I’m warm.
And at that gesture, I thaw.
Soon, the car slows down. I peek out the window and notice we’re pulling up to the loft building. When the driver throws the car in park, Trent turns to me and signals with his hand for me to stay. Then he is up and out of the car, walking around to my side.
He opens the door and reaches his hand in to grab me. I shake my head, but he just frowns.
“No way am I letting you try to walk.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Carry you, of course.”
“You are not carrying me.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Petulant child in aisle one.
He leans into the car doorway and almost whispers, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
