Page 75 of Fifth Avenue Fling

We’re dangerously close; it feels like #huntsmanpiegate all over again. His eyes never leave my face as he lowers his head to mine.

“Did I ask for your opinion on parenting my daughter?” His voice is low. I would almost prefer it if he shouted at me. “You’ve been living here for a week, and now you’re telling me how to raise my child?”

“You weren’t there,” I say quietly. “You can’t possibly know if what I’m saying is correct.”

Ignoring his glare, I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll to where I’ve taken pictures of Teagan at ballet.

By the way he looks at the phone, you’d think I showed him pictures of animal cruelty.

“Mind your own damn business, Clodagh,” he growls through clenched teeth, jerking away from me.

To my horror, tears prick my eyes. I won’t eat with this arrogant man tonight. I grab my plate and skitter past him, out of the kitchen and down the stairs to my studio.

He doesn’t come after me.

***

Just as I slip into my pajama shorts and vest top, there’s a knock on the studio door.

Bracing myself for round two, I open the door to Killian.

He looks me up and down warily. “Can you be here at eight o’clock next Tuesday night?” He pauses. “I need you to stay with Teagan. I’m going into the ballet school to talk to the teacher.”

“Sure,” I reply, suppressing a smile.

He gives me a slight nod before walking away.

It’s the closest I’ll get to an apology.

***

It’s midnight before I realize I don’t have my phone. I have to set my alarm, but I left it upstairs when I ran off in a rush.

I creep upstairs without turning the lights on to find alargefigureon the sofa.

Killian.

Naked except for shorts.

His thick bicep spills over the side of the couch, and the other rests on his bare, toned stomach. His legs are spread apart, one extended over the edge of the couch.There’s no question he’s a beautiful man. Sleeping, he looks almost vulnerable. Boyish.

Is he dreaming?

He lets out a loud, grunty snore, and I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle.

What if he sleeps here all night and doesn’t get up in time in the morning? Should I wake him? Probably not; he’ll only yell at me.

Ever so gently, I pull the blanket bunched up at his feet up over his legs and stomach.

When I look up, he’s awake and staring right at me.

I freeze. “Sorry, I—”

Abruptly, his hand comes up to my cheek, almost as if forgetting himself.

The heat from his touch radiates into my skin, and I forget how to breathe.

He goes entirely still, neither of us saying a word. An inner battle plays out on his face as he contemplates what to do next.

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