Page 56 of The Crowned Garza
It amazes me how he’s able to switch gears with such ease, while I’m here struggling to recover from our kiss.
The phone conversation carries all the way back down to the office. Once we’re there, Saint mutes the call and turns to me. “Tor needs remote assistance and it’s going to take a little while. You’ve already been here too long. Go. I’ll try to come to you later.”
“Try?”
With just a look, he lets me know he thinks I’m being difficult. Maybe I am. Do I care? No. Not when I’m in a silent war to convince him I’m worth the risk.
“Okay, whatever,” I mutter with childish petulance. “I won’t wait up. You can let yourself in.”
By the time I get home, there are thirty-eight missed calls and eighteen text messages from Will. Phrases like “not what it seems” and “crazy ex” jump out at me, but I honestly don’t care. I bin them all, block his number, then take a hot shower.
Against my better judgment, I wait for Saint. The delusional side of me believing he’ll show.
Eventually, the realistic side of me gives in to sleep.
When I open my eyes again, the sun is in the sky.
The liar never came.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Blasphemy.”
Tillie
FOR THE FIRST TIMEin a long time, I had a great day at work.
Working on the line alongside some exceptionally talented cooks today gave me a rush I haven’t had since graduating from culinary school. Dulce kept her word in ensuring me a better work experience and the vibe overall was wonderful. Which I’m grateful for. Cooking is a labor of love for me. The salary is pathetic and the hours are exhaustingly long, so if I’m not enjoying the job, what’s the point, right?
Compared to the last couple of weeks, I get home from work in good spirits, a bounce in my step. Said spirit almost flees my body when I walk into my house and findhimin my kitchen cooking. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, inked forearms exposed. Looking too damn good under those kitchen lights.
“Wha—” I stop and take a minute to recover from the small shock of his unexpected presence. “Where did you park?”
“Somewhere.”
“I gave you permission to comelast night,” I remind him, ambling to the kitchen. “Not whenever you want.”
He merely points the knife he’s using to the row of stools in front of the island. “Sit.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap. “Better yet, get out. I had a really good shift at work and would like to maintain that high, so I’m not in the mood for your confusing, capricious ass tonight.”
“Perdonami.” He sets down the knife and the lemon he was wedging. “Enjoy the meal.”
I watch him round the island and stride from the kitchen without sparing me a second glance.
Why does he have to be like this? Why can’t he make it easier for me?
He’s halfway to the front door when I cave on my resolve to be mad at him and chase him down. Wrap my arms around his middle from behind and press my face to his back. “I hate how much I like you. All pride and dignity just…go out the door.”
He pries my arms from around him, turning to cradle my face with one hand, his warm thumb dusting across my cheek. “Stop ‘liking’ me.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Try harder.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“You don’t like me,regalità.” He pinches my chin. “You’re just a brat who enjoys chasing yeses because you hate hearing no.”
