Page 72 of His Surrender

“Then what is it about?”

My jaw tightens. “I had no idea where you were.”

Her eyes widen. “You literally watched me leave.”

“You left the building.”

She folds her arms. “I was on a date.”

“I know,” I reply.

“Then what exactly did you think happened?”

Everything.

A cab accident. Someone following her. A mugging.

A hundred different possibilities that my brain tortured me with for the last three hours. But saying any of that out loud would only make me sound as unhinged as I suddenly feel.

I take a slow breath.

“From now on”—my voice comes out lower than I intended— “if you’re going to be out late, I want you to text me.”

She stares at me for an uncomfortably long moment … then actually laughs.

“No,” she says with a chill to her tone.

“No?” I repeat in shock.

“No.” She shakes her head once. “That’s absurd.”

I take a step toward her, not particularly thrilled at my misery causing her so much entertainment. “It’s a simple request.”

“It’s not your business.”

Another step toward her. “It becomes my business when you live in my home.”

“I work for you, Dean.” Her voice sharpens. “You don’t own me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

She turns, as if to walk away. Before I can think better of it, I step in front of her.

She stops so suddenly that we’re barely inches apart.

The foyer feels impossibly small.

“I wasn’t finished.”

She tips her chin up. “I was.”

I don’t move. Neither does she.

“I said, I want you to check in,” I answer sternly.

“And I said no.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “It was a demand.”