Page 62 of Freed
“I left some clothes for you in the bedroom.”
“I don’t want your clothes,” I mutter, brushing past him to go to the fridge.
That part, at least, is true.
The clothes he left are beautiful in the way expensive things often are—sleek, clean lines, soft knits, tailored pieces that whisper money instead of shouting it. They also cling in all the wrong places. The tops skim too close. The trousers are too fitted. The dresses are absolutely out of the question.
There is no chance in hell I’m putting them on.
Not when they would show too much.
Not when I still don’t know whether he chose them because he wants me polished and presentable at his side, or because he thinks we’re boarding another plane today and I’m about to be dragged back into a version of my life that no longer fits.
The thought has me frowning as I pour orange juice into a glass.
Behind me, Lorenzo takes a slow sip of coffee.
“No coffee?”
I turn and meet his gaze over the rim of the carton. “Fuck off.”
That earns a real laugh from him.
“Oh, you’re going to be loads of fun today,” he says. “I can already tell.”
I set the juice down harder than necessary and cross my arms over my chest. “I’m thrilled you’re enjoying yourself.”
His eyes drift over me once, catching on the hoodie, my bare legs, the irritation I know is written all over my face. Something dark flickers there before he looks back up.
“I’m not enjoying myself.”
“Right.” I take my glass and lean against the counter, putting as much space between us as the kitchen allows. “You only look like that after kidnapping women from their weddings and then acting smug in expensive kitchens.”
His mouth curves. “You think I look smug?”
“I think you look very pleased with yourself.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when I’m looking at you.”
That gets another almost-smile. Smaller this time. Sharper.
I hate how good he looks when he’s amused. I hate even more that part of me remembers exactly how that mouth felt against mine only hours ago.
I take a quick drink of orange juice just to have something else to focus on.
Lorenzo watches me over the rim of his coffee cup. “We’re not going to Chicago today.”
I lower the glass slowly. “Then where are we going?”
“Nowhere. Today, we’re staying here.”
I narrow my eyes. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow isn’t here yet.”
“That’s not an answer.”
