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To fuck with her, I grunt while taking it from her gloved hand.
She frowns, looking almost annoyed that she expected more, and I gave her less.
She should get used to that.
"Right, well, I'll be going now," she turns, but I grab the elbow of her puffer or, what I think is the elbow, and turn her around.
"Would you like a tour of the place? See where you'll be staying?"
My future bride hesitates, pulling the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. Her brows go up, then together in contemplation. "Sure."
She doesn't take her coat off, just follows me up the stairs, but she does linger as she eyes it all.
I get to the second bedroom on the left, open the door, and turn the light on to a soft glow. The space is large, with a king-size bed, a nightstand on either side, a dresser with eight drawers, and a small ottoman chest she can use to put her blankets in. "This will be your bedroom. I'm right across the hall."
"And Parker?" Her voice is small as she stands at the threshold, clutching her puffer with her gloved hands as though it's colder in herethan it is outside.
I hold in my scoff. "The room next to yours," I answer.
"Thank you," she says, taking a step out of her bedroom and back into the hallway. "I should go. Parker is waiting for me."
I grunt and it makes her walk away faster.
Is she afraid of me?
Afraid of being alone with me?
She reaches the base of the stairs quickly and doesn't wait for me to open my front door. She just rushes out and is down the hall and, in the elevator, before I can even muster a goodbye. When she turns to push the button on the elevator, I swear tears are swimming in her red-rimmed eyes, making the green pop.
A bit of disgust forms in the pit of my stomach.
She's beautiful, yes, but there's only one word I can form in mymind when I see her-
Weak.
Chapter Eight
Parker.
Chelsea, England
Her hold on the door frame is tight, her other hand, from where I can see is on her stomach. I think she's about to vomit, but I doubt I'll be good for anything. Her hair is already partially up and out of her face, and I can't exactly touch her, or she'll panic.
Her shoulders bob up and down in short, panting breaths, and the satin cream dress she wears is held up by nothing but flimsy straps, clinging to her curves perfectly. It would take nothing to rip it and have those glorious tits of hers spill free.
But this isn't the time.
And she's not mine.
My hands tremble at the need to settle her, to soothe, to let her know she isn't alone. So, I say the only thing I can think of that might help. "Showtime."
I watch her shoulders square back, and God, when she stands to her full height and turns to look at me, I have to hold my breath for fear of telling her how fucking beautiful she is right now. Her makeup is done to perfection, with winged eyes and red lips. That dress. Fuck the neckline hangs low but covers just enough of her cleavage. The satin clings to her pearled nipples poking through, down to the soft swell of her stomach and her hips - she's a wet dream come to life.
My heart stammers in my chest from lack of oxygen, but goddamn, a man can only be so strong.
I never meant to fall for her.
But somewhere in her headstrong silence and then watching her closer, forced to be around her due to that night, that fucking one time I wasn't there, I learnedher. Every mannerism, every laugh, every fake fucking smile she plasters on her flawless face just so I can tellwhat she's actually feeling... I can't believe I miss the girl that gave me hell and told me to bugger off. The girl that drove me insane with her loud music and laughter. And yes, maybe I fell forthisversion of her, but the other version was just as good. Young and naive and silly, and both versions drive me up the wall, butthisversion of her - hollow-eyed and devoid of life... it hurts me.