“I don’t have an answer for you.”
“So it simply…”––he steps closer, and my ass hits the edge of the counter as my hands press into his firm chest––“disappeared?”
“I guess so,” I reply, refusing to give in or acknowledge the way his heart thumps against my palm or how the feeling shoots straight to my core.
His aggravation twists his handsome features, willing me to budge. To answer him. It’s so strong, so consuming, I can almost taste it as I hold his angry stare. He’s so used to getting what he wants it's like he didn’t even think it was possible for someone to tell him no. To stand their ground.
“And your father’s money?” he prods. “The money he borrowed to pay for your degree?”
“You mean the money that cost him his life?” I mock. “It barely lasted a semester.” Unable to hold his gaze for another second, I look around the gorgeous bathroom again. “Unlike this bathroom. This is timeless, don’t you think?”
His grip on my bicep disappears, but he doesn’t back away. And he doesn’t stop looking at me. I can feel it. His eyes on the side of my face. “It’s only a bathroom, Mia.”
“But it isn’t,” I argue. “This entire building screams wealth, while I grew up in a studio apartment with my mom and a barely-there father, depending on whether or not he was on a bender.”
The bastard looks like I’ve slapped him, but I don’t apologize. Not for being too stubborn to open up to him. Not for assuming things. Nothing.
“You’re angry with me,” he decides, and his hands fall to my waist. “For growing up with wealthy parents who didn’t struggle like yours.”
I stay quiet. Confused by the adrenaline thrumming through me. The need to run away from this. From him. From the reminder of my past. Everything.
“Most girls love it,” he murmurs through clenched teeth as he takes in the lavish bathroom with fresh eyes. “The reminder they are sleeping with a rich guy.” There's an undercurrent of frustration in his words. Resentment almost.
“Like Scarlett?” I ask.
His gaze darkens as his ex’s name slips past my lips. “Yes.” He squeezes my waist again. “You never told me why you covered for her.”
“You’re right. I didn’t.”
Sensing my lack of remorse, he cocks his head. “Okay, Brat, I’ll bite. Why did you cover for her?”
“Because it was none of my business.”
“You lied to my face.”
“I’ve lied to a lot of people’s faces,” I volley back.
“I don’t like liars.”
“Then it’s a good thing we don’t have to like each other to fuck each other, isn’t it?”
He grabs my jaw, twisting me until all I can see is him. “I have another rule.”
“So many rules,” I muse.
“Don’t lie to me. Ever.”
“We already have that rule,” I remind him. “If you’re unhappy with the arrangement, you end it. Remember?”
“I’m amending it,” he clarifies. “No lies in general.”
“Does it go both ways?”
“I don’t lie to anyone.”
“Ever?” I challenge. The guy has to be kidding me. Everyone lies. Everyone. Maybe not on purpose. And maybe not with animosity. But he can’t tell me he doesn’t lie.
He shakes his head.
“Even when you’re conducting a business deal?” I press.
“Integrity is an integral part of success. In businesses and relationships.”
“But we aren’t in a relationship,” I argue.
“My cock has been inside your body, Mia.” The words make my skin hot, and I lick my bottom lip. “Multiple times,” he continues. “It might not constitute an emotional relationship, but it does constitute a physical one.”
“Fine,” I mutter, attempting to keep my libido in check. “No lying.”
“Good. Now, I’ll ask you again. Why didn’t you tell me Scarlett was cheating when I asked?”
My shoulders fall. “Seriously?”
“I want to know. Are you against cheating?”
“Of course, I’m against cheating,” I seethe, blown away he has the audacity to assume otherwise. He has no fucking clue how much I hate cheating. How low it is. How despicable.
“But only when it’s happening to you,” he concludes, dropping my chin from his grasp as if he’s disgusted.
I glower up at him. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” I snap. “The reason I didn’t tell you about Scarlett was because I knew I didn’t have the whole story. Did you cheat first and were better at hiding it? Were you abusive? Did you hit her?”
“I would never hit a woman, Mia,” he growls. His tone is full of conviction, but it’s woven with disbelief too. Like he’s offended I’d even think it was possible.
I scoff, blinking away the sting behind my eyes, shocked by how quickly it hit. “Lots of guys say they would never hit a woman. Doesn’t mean none of them are lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you well enough to make the call at the time, so I kept my nose out of Scarlett’s business the same way I want other people to keep their noses out of mine.”
My words hang in the air as he watches me, the wheels in his head churning. I have no idea what they’re attempting to decipher. He wanted to know why I didn’t tell him about Scarlett. Now he knows. Big deal. Let’s move on.
“Tell me you believe me,” he orders. There’s a slight rasp to his voice. An undertone of conviction and need. The combination leaves me speechless. “Tell me you know I would never hit you.”
The same burn hits my eyes with a vengeance, and I turn my head, unable to look at him any longer. Not when he’s this close. When I can feel the heat of his body. The weight of his stare. The brush of his clean, minty breath.
“Do you really think so little of me?” he whispers. The harshness in his voice is gone. It’s replaced with genuine curiosity.
And fuck me, I don’t. I don’t think so little of him. Call me crazy, but I believe the guy. And it’s like he said, he’s nothing if not honest.
“No.” I sniff. “No, I don’t think you’d ever hit me or anyone else.”
Buchanan nods, his gratitude warming his normally lethal gaze. He reaches up and tucks the same loose strand of my hair behind my ear. His movements are cautious and controlled, and so is his voice as he prods, “Did he hit you, Mia?”
He.
We both know who he’s referring to. It only makes my shame grow stronger. Bigger. Heavier.
Weak girls get hit.
Pathetic girls get hit.
Desperate girls get hit.
And admitting my ex hit me? To anyone, let alone Henry Buchanan? The man who holds the world in the palm of his hand?
Yeah, not gonna happen.
I swallow the ache in my throat and shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. Or at least attempt to. My vision is still blurry. The bathroom is fading around me, fighting with the image of Shorty’s bedroom in the basement of the Taylor House and all the times he hurt me. Manipulated me. Slapped me around simply because he could. Because I was too weak to leave. Too desperate for his attention. Too pathetic.