Page 153 of Make Me Yours
“Would you mind if I speak to Evelyn alone?” he asks, his gaze pinned to mine.
I arch a brow. “Oh, I don’t think that’s really necessary, do you?”
His reply is immediate. “Yes. It is.”
When Rina glances at me, I nod and offer her a practiced smile. I’ve had twenty-five years to perfect it. “It’s fine. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Once she slips out, Hugh closes the door behind her without being asked.
Typical.
“There’s no need to shut the door,” I say coolly. “You won’t be here long enough to make it worth the trouble.”
“Actually,” he replies, stepping farther into the room, “there’s quite a bit for us to discuss.”
It would be impossible not to notice how the space shrinks around him.
I pick up my cup and take another sip of tea just to avoid snapping something I’ll regret. This man has always had the ability to rattle me. And I hate that after all these years, it still holds true.
There was a time when all he had to do was look at me and my knees weakened. I would have done anything he asked without question. For just a second, my mind tumbles back almost thirty years to the man he was when we first fell in love.
As soon as that thought pops into my head, I shove it away. It took years for me to get over our broken engagement and move on with my life. It wasn’t the same for Hugh. He married my best friend less than twelve months later.
“Well, now that you chased Rina away, don’t keep me in suspense. Just get it over with.” I pretend to glance at my watch. “I have dinner plans this evening.”
He raises a brow. “Cancel them.”
I straighten and blink. “Excuse me?”
When he steps closer, it becomes necessary to lift my chin in order to hold his steady gaze. “I said cancel them. I’ve made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”
Disconcerted by his proximity, I force out a laugh. “As if you would know what that is.”
“Gold Coast Table,” he says without hesitation.
“That’s… right.” I shake my head and set the tea back down. “What’s this about? Never mind. Get out. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
“Peter Michaelson agreed to sell me his four percent.”
The words hit like a lightning strike. Sudden, jarring, and nearly impossible to process. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. The paperwork will be finalized by the end of the week, which means that I’ll own fifty-two percent of the Railers.”
Pressure builds inside me until it feels like I might explode. “He said he would never sell to either of us.”
“I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
Of course he did.
Bastard.
It might have taken him two decades, but Hugh Landry always finds a way.
I step back, needing space.
Needing air.
It feels like I’m suffocating. It’s tempting to claw at my throat.
