Page 223 of Bishop

“It’s been a month. Have I not waited long enough?”

He stands taller, almost defensive.

“I already know it’s because of the things I did,” I admit. “But I want to hear it from—”

“What could you have possibly done?” His gaze snaps to mine.

I swallow, not wanting to state my crimes out loud. It’s been hard enough having them run through my head non-stop.

His eyes narrow. “What actions make you think you’re responsible for my behavior?”

It’s my turn to look away, lowering my focus to the top two open buttons of his white dress shirt.

“Why don’t we go inside where we can talk properly?” I backtrack, buying time until he grabs my wrist, halting my escape.

“What about Tilly? I don’t want to step into her safe space. She’s been through enough.”

The squeezing and aching inside my chest intensifies. For a man who doesn’t want anything to do with children, he sure seems to care about them.

“You won’t upset her. We can keep our distance and sit at the dining table while she plays. I’ll make you a coffee.” I gently twist my arm from his grip, hating how a mere touch has made my skin ignite. “I can only offer instant because I don’t know how to work the coffee machine, but—”

“What’s wrong with the machine?” he asks.

“I can’t figure it out.”

He pauses long enough for me to take in the hesitance in his features, his gaze cautiously watching Tilly before he strides inside. “What’s to figure out?”

I close the door behind him and follow toward the kitchen. “Only every button and lever. It’s got me stumped.” I stop beside him at the shiny stainless-steel machine that taunts me from the appliance nook. “It’s been weeks, and I still haven’t had a chance to look up the online instructions.”

“Let me do it.” He dumps the blue bunny on the island counter, then opens the drawer beneath the machine. He retrieves two coffee mugs, then places them on the dripper tray, his confidence in what should be an unfamiliar kitchen catching me off-guard. “How strong do you want it?”

I frown while he opens a nearby cupboard, grabs the necessary coffee pods left by the previous tenant, then dumps one in the machine. “Just regular, I guess.”

A few pressed buttons later and the machine whirs to life.

I stare dumbfounded as he hands a filled mug over, not sure if I should be embarrassed at my lack of coffee-making skills or impressed by his. “How do you know your way around the machine?”

He palms his drink and leans back against the cupboards to take a lazy sip. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“It was to me.”

He shrugs, his attention diverting to Tilly over my shoulder as he takes another mouthful. “If you’ve used one machine, you’ve used them all.”

“I guess your instincts must be crazy accurate, especially when you found the mugs and pods without thought.”

“Is it really that surprising to find the mugs in the drawer below the coffee machine?”

Maybe not. What is surprising is how different he is. How he struggles to hold my gaze. How things between us seem so far from where they once were.

I don’t like it.

“How did you get past the concierge?” I ask. “Usually he calls to get approval before allowing any visitors an elevator pass.”

He pushes from the cupboards and stalks toward the dining table. “People love me.”

“People do not love you, Bishop.”

“Maybe not, but I have a way with words.”

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