Page 28 of The Crowned Garza
He strides off to the bedroom, but I’m not mad because the view of that man from behind?Perfection.
My phone pings with a worried text from Dom and I tap out a quick reply.
Me:Hey, sorry for not checking in sooner. I’m home safely.
Almost immediately, his name is flashing on the screen. Biting my lip, I stare at it, letting the call ring out. At the last minute, I answer because he’s done nothing wrong. I’m the problem.
“Hey, D.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” he answers in a relieved gush. “I just wanted to hear your voice to know you’re not mad at me, that you’re not kicking me to the curb.”
Picking nonexistent lint from Saint’s tee, I sigh. “You didn’t do anything wrong, D.”
“Then why does it feel like I did?” His voice is strained with frustration. “I really, really fucking like you, Tillie.”
“D, I promise you, we’re good.”
“Okay. Okay.” The sharp inhale on the other end tells me he’s smoking. “You’ll call me tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay,angel. Sleep well for me, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
Ending the call, I look up to see Saint, now dressed in lounge pants, watching me from the bedroom doorway. Without his glasses, his gaze is doubly intense.
“You about done?” he snips out. “I need to go to sleep.”
This loft is so damn big that there’s no way my conversation, which was barely at normal volume, was disturbing him. But the expression on his face cautions me that now isn’t the time to sass, so I just nod. “Where do I sleep?”
“Wherever you want,” he answers curtly.
“I don’t—”
“Buona notte,” he calls out as he turns back into the bedroom.
In the next second, the loft is plunged into darkness.
What an ass!
Using the flashlight on my phone, I navigate across the capacious space toward the bedroom, noticing a sliver of light seeping from under Indy’s door. At least she wasn’t dunked in darkness without warning.
“You’re a real jerk, you know that?” I snap when I’ve finally made it to the bedroom that’s awash in the dim gold glow of a night lamp.
My heart skitters to a stop at the sight of him stretched out on the right side of the bed. Arms folded behind his head, eyes closed.
Where does he even find pants to fit those mile-long legs? Does he have them tailor-made? When did he get all those tattoos? One by one throughout his years? Do they have special meanings? I want to know his story. I want to know everything. I want to knowhim.
My heart judders with devious excitement when it suddenly dawns on me that we’re about to sleep in bed together. Although I begged him to take me with him, ending the night in bed with him hadn’t even been a thought. But he said I can sleep wherever I want, then he left the bedroom door open and kept on the night lamp on the other side of the bed…
Seems like a clear and unmistakable suggestion to me.
“Get in bed or get out,” he mutters with his eyes still closed. “You’re distracting me.”
“Distracting you from what?”
“Praying.”
