Page 107 of Gloves Off

For some reason, I’m walking over to him. My heels click across the floor and the way he glances down at them, the way heat flares in his eyes, boosts my confidence.

“Thank you, though,” I say quietly, leaning up on my toes and pressing a kiss to his warm cheek. Under my touch, he doesn’t move. “And thank you for the other night. You really did save me there.”

His scent, the way his stubble scrapes against my lips, they blank out the giant question blaring in my head:What the actual fuck am I doing right now?

“You’re welcome, Hellfire.” There’s a low, pleased tone to his voice that makes me flutter again.

He glances at my lips. The urge to kiss him for real pulses through me.

We can’t, we shouldn’t, we said we wouldn’t, but god, I want to.

Oh god. I think I might be developing a crush on my fake husband.

“You’re going to be late,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up. Not a smile, but almost.

“Right.” My face is flushing. “Bye.”

At the door to the garage, though, I stop short.

My car’s gone, and a dark green luxury SUV is parked in its place. Shiny and new. I frown. I parked my car there last night. I know I did.

Did Alexei’s dad pick the car up this morning to fix something? I feel like one of them would have said something.

A bad feeling simmers in my stomach.

When I walk back into the house, he’s waiting in the foyer, pacing with a weird, nervous energy.

“Whose car is that in the garage?”

He clears his throat, eyes on my face. “Yours.”

The bad feeling in my stomach lands with a crash. “You can’t be serious.”

You’re buying a new car, he said once. My throat feels hot and tight.

He crosses his arms, a spark of pride in his eyes. “It’s yours. I bought it for you.”

A knot forms in my chest and I can’t get a full breath. I feel sick. “Where’s my car?”

“Gone. I took care of it.”

“Took care of it,” I repeat. “You got rid of my car without asking me?” I blink in total fucking disbelief.

In an instant, I’m in the kitchen of Liam’s apartment back in Toronto, asking him why I’m getting emails about my med school unenrollment.

“Are you serious? How could you think that was okay?”

His pleased expression falls like a ton of bricks. “It was a piece of crap, Georgia. It broke down once a week.”

“But it was mine.” The words come out sharp and loud. “Where is it?”

“The junkyard.”

Rage blinds me. “What?”

“It’s probably a tin can by now.”

I’m speechless, I’m so furious. I feel shaky and weird. My pulse beats in my ears. Even when he threw my shoes in the garbage, I wasn’t this mad. Back then, I expected nothing better.

---