Page 39 of Arrogant Bastard

I close my eyes and tuck my hands behind my head. “I could really do with a beer.”

“Are you trying to avoid another fight with me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He sighs, and I hear him move away. Half a minute later, he returns. “Here.”

I open my eyes, and he’s holding out a cold Bud Light. “Thanks.” I take it from him and gulp down several mouthfuls.

He keeps looking at me without drinking from his own bottle.

“What?”

“When did you start drinking beer?” he asks.

I tense a little, and my gaze shifts from his. “A while back.” When I was on a downward spiral into my own hell-based drama.

“What aren’t you telling me, baby?”

God. A whole lot. But this one I can admit to without feeling as if what remains of my soul isn’t being ripped out. “You were forced into therapy. I…found other means to…exist.”

He looks into my eyes, and we both silently admit that, while I was the one to leave, it wasn’t easy for me either. “Booze?” he asks.

I nod, feeling a tiny cathartic release I don’t really deserve for that admission. “For a time.”

“And the other times? Drugs?” he probes.

I shake my head. “No. I listen to a twenty-five-year-old CEO cry for three hours straight about how he wants to bang his fifty-five-year-old secretary because she looks like his high school teacher. Or a fitness instructor who flogs himself because he can’t get over accidentally killing his neighbor’s dog.”

He shakes his head and takes a long swig of beer as his gaze hovers contemplatively in the middle distance. “So the club wasn’t totally a punishment for you. It was partly your savior,” he observes quietly.

The bottle starts to slip from my fingers as shock pummels me.

His stunning eyes return to mine, seeing far too much. I must look as poleaxed as I feel because he caresses my cheek with a finger. “It’s okay, baby.”

I jerk away. “It’s not okay. And you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” But I strongly suspect that he does. Jesus.

Killian Knight wouldn’t have risen to the high rank he did at the Fallhurst Institute, all while maintaining his normal nerdy billionaire existence, if he wasn’t clever. Although he’s never taken the test, his IQ is estimated to be insanely high. Right in this moment, I resent his ability to turn all that high-mental-quotient brain and blue-eyed, mind-scrambling face on me.

A beep from his pants pocket saves me from defending myself further. Or providing answers to the myriad questions I see brimming in his eyes.

He pulls out a sleek gadget and looks down at the screen. He scrolls through whatever information is displayed and then glances at me. “Wanna take this field trip a little further?”

I inhale in surprise. “Where?”

“Betty has mapped out a route to the club with the least amount of functioning CCTV cameras. And another route to your apartment.” He looks up at me. “Which one do you want to hit first?”

“My apartment,” I respond immediately. “I can’t go to the club dressed like this.”

“We’ll have something to eat first, then we’ll go. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great.” He puts the gadget away and nods to the cooling bottle in my hand. “Finish your beer.”

* * *

We eat an early dinner prepared by Mitch, and this time I wisely don’t make a comment about how great the steak and salad are. Afterward, Killian disappears into his study for half an hour. I use the app on my phone to check the footage from the security cameras I placed at vantage points around my apartment building.

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