Page 62 of Twisted Little Thing

I gulp. "I'd rather not right now."

He sighs. "Then let me come up."

He is not asking. He is demanding. With that tone in his voice that I can never deny.

I push the button to open the door for him.

My heart starts racing again as I wait for him to come upstairs. His confident, heavy steps are approaching floor by floor. He does not appear to be in a hurry, yet I can sense his tension.

He looks fantastic, as usual. Rather casual, dressed in a light shirt and dark pants. Everything he wears always seems to be custom-tailored, flattering his perfect body.

His hair looks boyish and unstyled today. It suits the smile that appears on his face once he is standing before me.

In his hands he is holding two beautiful red roses, decorated with a long, thick silk ribbon in a pastel violet tone that matches the flowers.

I smirk at him.

"I couldn't show up empty-handed, could I," he says, handing me the roses. "You look gorgeous."

I take them, unable to suppress the sheepish grin in response to his romantic gesture. I don't think anybody has ever given me flowers like these. The roses are in full bloom.

"They are beautiful," I whisper. "Thank you."

I look up at him, returning his smile. There is a hint of sadness behind it. Just as I see it on him, I notice that my smile conveys a similar sentiment .

"What is wrong?" he asks, stepping forward and placing his hands on each of my shoulders. "You look shaken."

I take a step back and beckon him to come inside. He doesn't take his eyes off of me as he follows me inside and closes the door behind us.

"I should... get some water for these," I say and hurry into the kitchen.

He follows me calm, steady, confident, whereas I move around hectically, fetching a water carafe and filling it with cold water.

I try my best to appear fully occupied with the task of preparing the flowers he gave me. His eyes are on me. I can sense them like hot needles poking into my neck and back.

He is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest, observing me. Our eyes meet when I turn around, holding the carafe with the roses, a helpless smile on my face.

He returns the smile but doesn’t say anything.

"Do you want something to drink?" I ask while I place the roses on our kitchen table.

I sound like a robot. Like someone who has rehearsed her lines for this interaction.

"No, thank you," he says, mimicking my tone. "I would like to know what made you run upstairs, though."

I pause. My hands are still wrapped around the carafe that I just placed on the table. I don’t know what to say. Right now, I feel rather stupid for my actions.

Did I really believe there was a paparazzo waiting for me downstairs? Now, in the safety of my own home and with Evan standing next to me, the thought of someone waiting downstairs in a car to take a picture of me seems quite unlikely. In the end, I didn’t even actually see a camera. I just thought there might be one.

I shake my head.

"Nothing," I say. "It was stupid."

"Don’t say that," Evan says. "You looked scared. And very shaken. There must have been something."

He approaches me. I can feel his hands gently wrapping around my waist from behind. His familiar body warmth, his smell.

I instinctively lean back into him and close my eyes as he starts planting little kisses on the back of my neck.

"Tell me," he whispers. "Or I'll punish you for lying to me."

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