Page 10 of When Lies Unfold

I whirl around and pin him with a hard glare. His remark, saturated with arrogance, causes me to fist my hands at my sides.

“I’m sure it’s not up to your standards, but it suits me just fine.”

Dark brows descend and brackets form on either side of his mouth. The surrounding air feels as though it’s turned cooler. “You got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

I lift my chin a notch. “I may not have much, Mr. Hernández, but I’m a hard worker, and everything I have has come from that.”

Lips flattening as he studies me, his eyes scour over me for a long moment. It’s so lengthy that I’m tempted by the urge to fidget beneath the weight of his scrutiny.

“I wasn’t bein’ facetious.”

My brain screeches to a halt, replaying his words, and I blink. Did he read a dictionary?

As if privy to my thoughts, his gaze hardens while his jaw turns to granite. “Figures you’d assume I wasn’t intelligent.”

When he resumes his inspection of my home’s interior, I’m torn between relief and remorse that I’m no longer his center of attention.

What the hell? I mentally shake off the odd reaction as I watch him and wonder why he’s here with me. Alone.

My thoughts race. Could I fight him off if he tries anything?

I have sharp enough knives, but that kind of weapon makes for a mess. Not to mention, he may be older than me, but his solid build indicates he’s no stranger to working out. It wouldn’t be a fair fight by a long shot?—

“Not here for that.”

Startled, my gaze crashes into his. The barest hint of amusement flickers there before disappearing so fast I wonder if it was my imagination.

“Then what are you here for?”

He cocks his head to the side. “My men checked your work back there. You did well. There’s no trace that anythin’ happened.”

“I hold true to my promises.”

He lets out a grunt that implies he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. Walking farther inside, he inspects the kitchen and the small table nearby. I’m not sure what he expects to find in this small one-bedroom home.

“You like to cook?”

I blink, unsure of where his line of questioning is leading. “Sometimes.”

When he trails his fingers along the cheap countertop, it serves as a blunt reminder of how I traded in a spacious kitchen with granite countertops to drool over for this abbreviated cooking space.

But I don’t regret it for even a moment.

He lifts his fingers and inspects them. “You don’t slack off in your own cleanin’, either. Impressive.”

I barely resist rolling my eyes. Instead, I cross my arms, wishing he’d get to the point and leave.

He stops at the loveseat that’s seen better days. I reupholstered it two years ago, finally making the secondhand furniture my own. In a wicker basket beside it is a clear zippered case with sewing needles and thick fabric swatches.

When his attention snags on it, my breath lodges in my throat while my left hand erupts in pain once again.

He muses, “Wouldn’t have guessed you had a thing for sewin’,” before leveling me with a questioning look.

I don’t say a word. Instead, I regard him as he approaches much like a stealthy lion might creep up on its prey.

Once he’s directly in front of me, I’m forced to tip my head back to meet his gaze. Yet again, I’m assaulted by his nearness and clean, masculine scent.

“You better not talk to anybody.” An arctic air of malice blankets his command.

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