Page 8 of Relapse

“You look like you’re about to fold.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “And people say romance is dead.”

Another pulse throbs behind my eyes.

Jesus Christ.

I blink hard against it, and that apparently confirms his suspicions because his entire expression shifts into that same aggravated look he used to get in the warehouse whenever I did something objectively stupid and then doubled down on it for fun.

Which, in my defense, is most things.

“Get on the bike,” he says.

I bark out a laugh immediately.

“Oh, absolutely the fuck not.”

“Blair.”

“No, because last time I trusted you, I woke up hospitalized and emotionally compromised.”

“You’re not staying here.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

I snort.

“Ohhh, right. Sorry. Forgot you appointed yourself mayor of bad decisions and nicotine addiction.”

His jaw tightens.

Mine keeps moving.

“What’s the plan here anyway?” I continue. “You throw me over your shoulder caveman-style? Kidnap me into the sunrise? Very toxic masculinity of you, by the way.”

“Fuck sakes,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest for half a second and—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

Focus.

Mad, Blair. Remember? Furious. Deeply betrayed. Not mentally stripping him in the middle of a parking lot like a raccoon digging through trash.

My eyes flick back up to his face.

Unfortunately, his are already on me.

And that—

That does something deeply embarrassing to my nervous system.

God. This man could look at me while reading a grocery list and I’d still probably ruin my own life over it.