Page 110 of Bishop

I’m standing in the kitchen an hour later, showered, dressed, with a coffee mug cradled in my hands when he enters the room prepared for the day in another immaculate designer charcoal suit.

Given our isolation, I would’ve thought he’d give up the constrictive threads. But not Bishop. He seems to want to be one hundred percent business one hundred percent of the time.

“Morning,” I murmur into my caffeine.

“Morning.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he makes his way to the coffee machine behind me, his stride confident, his posture authoritative.

He grabs a mug from an overhead cupboard, and what I assume is a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer, my impatience too potent to withstand the silence.

“Can we ditch the morning-after awkwardness?” I ask. “I’m willing to pretend nothing happened.”

He turns on the coffee machine, the gurgle and spit of liquid my only response.

I glance over my shoulder, his narrowed gaze pinning me from a foot away.

“Do I look like I feel awkward to you?” He grabs his filled mug and leans his hip against the counter. “Or were you referring to your own issues?”

“I don’t have issues.”

“Belladonna, you have many.” He takes a sip of steaming liquid. “Daddy ones being at the top of the list.”

I can’t tell if he’s attempting to be funny or malicious. All I know is that his appeal sings more to me than it did yesterday.

I’m left staring at him, taking in the longer lengths of his stubble, the blue of his eyes more piercing in the bright light of day.

He mustn’t appreciate the scrutiny because his expression changes under my attention from confident to stern. Arrogant too annoyed.

He pushes from the counter to stand tall, his posture tight and commanding. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Here it comes. The thin press of lips. The tight etch of his jaw. He sobers out of the confidence-fueled bravado he walked in here with, his eyes hardening as if I’ve reclaimed enemy status.

“Like you’re—” He snaps his mouth shut.

“Like I’m…?” My stomach twists as I wait for the impending insult. “What? Trying to manipulate you again?”

He remains silent.

It’s all the answer I need.

I dump the remainder of my coffee in the sink and leave the mug. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I storm for the hall, but he grabs my shirt, yanking me backward.

I stumble into him, my ass to his groin, his hands clamping onto my hips to steady me with the most delicious heat.

“Don’t ever assume to know what I’m thinking,” he growls near my ear. “You’ll be wrong every time.”

My heart seizes. “Then tell me what you were going to say.”

“Those words are best left unsaid.”

I swallow, hating the deliciousness of his firm hands on me when I know his thoughts are unkind. What I feel for him is a sickness. A pathetic, irrational curse.

I turn to him. “Tell me.”

I need the rejection. The bitch slap of reality.

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