Page 22 of Blackwood

He stood straight and walked across the foyer, a few rays of moonlight striping across him as he approached.

I glared up at him. “I said I got it.”

“I think we’ve already cleared up that I don’t have a hearing problem.” He leaned down and easily scooped me into his arms.

“You can’t just manhandle me.” My mind said to tell him to fuck off, but my body relaxed against his, welcoming the warm feel of his chest.

“You think this is manhandling?” He shook his head, his unruly hair escaping from behind his ears.

“Yes, and if you take the stairs two at a time, I’ll lose my shit like Scarlett inGone With the Wind.”

He laughed, the sound throaty. “One at a time, then.”

We ascended slowly, his steps even and constant. He turned left at the top of the stairs.

“Is your room the other way?”

“Yes. Why, do you want to go to my room?” He arched a brow and stared down at me.

My heart did a weird stutter step. “I was just curious.”

“My door’s locked. So it should go without saying that my room is off limits.”

“Why? You got some hookers tied up in there?”

He grinned. “Not at the moment.”

I canted my head and studied his face. Joking. He was joking. Surely.

The overhead light in my room brightened his features as he carried me to my bed. The longer I stayed here, the more handsome he became. Was this how Stockholm syndrome started?

He set me on the bed and backed away.

I caught his eye. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Here we go.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest. More ink peeked from his sleeves, and I wondered what he had tattooed on his upper arms. “I knew I should have left you sitting at the bottom of the stairs, staring off all dreamy.”

I wrinkled my nose. “How long were you watching me?”

He shrugged. “Was that your question?”

“No.” I scooted back in the bed and rested against the headboard. He catalogued every movement, his gaze darting down my body. “Why do you stay here by yourself?”

“Because I like it.” He turned to the door. “Glad we had this chat.”

“Wait!”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Listen, I know a few things about you.” I needed to sprinkle the truth with some lies. “I looked you up on your laptop earlier. You were fired from your teaching position.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his back flexing. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t figure all that out, detective?” The bitterness in his voice cut, and his use of the word “detective” had me worried he knew more about me than he let on.

“No. That’s why I’m asking. So, why?”

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