Page 25 of Remy

I’ve been left alone with him, and at this point I’m unsure if that’s my preference.

“My father lives upstairs.” I say on instinct. “If I scream?—”

“You’re not going to scream,” he says with confidence. “And even if you did, I’m certain Carlo isn’t nearby to provide assistance.”

My stomach hollows.

How does he know my father’s name?

“His Audi isn’t parked under the awning,” he continues. “Neither is the pick-up van or your little blue Volkswagen. Thus the basis of this unfortunate interlude. We thought the place was empty.”

I shake my head, confused.

How does he know so much? The cars we drive? That my father isn’t home? And where the hell is my dad at this ungodly hour if not in bed upstairs?

“Did you do something to him?” I whisper.

“Ollie, come on. You’ve got the wrong impression.” He pulls his hands from his pockets to hold up his palms in placation. “I’m no threat to you or your dad.”

Yet he keeps stalking toward me. Prowling.

I reach the reception area and glance over my shoulder, searching for an escape.

I could sprint, but even if I reached the front door I wouldn’t get the deadbolt unlocked before he caught me.

I can’t hide. Not when I’m already in plain sight.

I could potentially call for help. Yet somehow I don’t think this man will pause his wolfish approach to allow me the time to retrieve my cell and dial a number.

“I can see your mind running a mile a minute.” He enters the brighter light of the entry, the gentle glow beaming down on his too handsome face, highlighting the tousled curls of his hair. “But everything is going to be okay. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk? Maybe the staff break room.”

Of course he knows about the staff break room.

Does he know what color underwear I’m wearing and my email password, too?

“Can’t we talk right here?” I take another retreating step, my ass colliding with Allison’s desk, her crystal flower vase teetering on impact.

I gasp.

He slows his advance, but doesn’t stop. He continues until he’s right in front of me. Foot to foot. Savagely close.

Those dark eyes stare down at me with a wickedly sinister brutality I never noticed all those months ago.

And somehow he’s no less beautiful—all carved lines and perfect symmetry.

“Why are you here, Ollie? It’s two in the morning. You should be home in bed.” His tone is a delicious purr, perhaps attempting to remind me of our past. Of the heat. The lust.

“Why are you here?” I murmur back.

He scrutinizes me for long seconds—reads me—as if trying to determine if I’m capable of withstanding the truth. “I require the use of your facilities.”

My stomach drops.

Bottoms.

I swallow. Lick my excessively drying lips. “Our office hours are from nine to five. If you’d like to come back when we’re open, I’m sure?—”

He snickers. Goddamn laughs.

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