Page 62 of Mine

He stabs into his salad. “I’d also like you to stop wearing my wife’s clothes.”

“What?”

“You’ve been wearing her sweaters since you arrived.”

I look down at the white cashmere sweater, then back at him. “No. Prishna gave them to me to wear. I had no idea they were your wife’s. She said you picked them out.”

“That’s incorrect.” He shoves a green leaf into his mouth and chews casually.

It annoys me how easily Astor can shift in demeanor. From crass demands and accusations one minute, to enjoying a salad and sipping hundred-dollar wine like he hasn’t a care in the world in the next.

“Is it incorrect?” I ask, my eyes narrowed.

“Yes. I would never allow you to wear my wife’s clothes.”

I scoff. “I had no idea I was wearing her clothes in the first place. So, you’re saying Prishna lied when she told me you picked them out?”

“I’d never call any of my employees liars. I’m simply telling you to stop wearing my wife’s clothes.”

I want to throw a fork at him. How can someone be so maddening and so addictive at the same time?

“Do you seriously think I would want to wear the clothes of the deceased wife of the man who kidnapped me?”

His head tilts to the side. “You hate your stay here that much?”

My mouth opens but hangs there for a second.

He and I both know I haven’t asked to be released since my failed escape. He knows I have no friends, no family, no pets, no plants to go home to. It’s just like he said, No one would care if you left.

He also knows of the undeniable sexual connection we have. A single minute with Astor Stone makes me feel more alive than all the years of my life combined. Why in the world would I want to leave that?

A grin plays on his lips. He’s testing me. He knows exactly what he does to me—and he knows I hate that he knows.

“What do you miss?” he asks thoughtfully. “Of your life before me, what do you miss?”

“My mother.” The response is instant. This wasn’t the answer he was expecting—or I was expecting, for that matter. But it is the honest truth.

“Tell me about her.”

“Well, she’s dead.”

“How?”

“Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry. When did this happen?”

“During a home invasion.”

His fork freezes in midair. He blinks.

“I know.” I nod. “It’s as tragic as it sounds, trust me. Are you sure you want to hear about it?”

“Yes.”

“I was eight. Two masked men broke into our apartment in the middle of the night. My dad was at work—he worked the night shift at a local chicken plant. He passed away years ago from cancer. Anyway, I heard a commotion and ran out of my bedroom. One of the men had a gun to my mother’s head, asking where her purse was. The other was ransacking the apartment. They got everything valuable, which wasn’t much—just our electronics—and then they left. The second the door closed, my mother dropped to the floor.”

I down the rest of my wine.

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