Page 88 of Gloves Off

Candytuft—indifference.

The message is crystal clear. I can’t be thinking about him, and I definitely can’t be thinking about how hot he is.

He clears his throat and I drop my phone. I didn’t even hear him get home.

“Staring at a picture of me?” he asks, mouth crooking.

“I was staring at myself,” I volley back, face going hot. “Because I’m so self-absorbed.”

His eyes trail over my outfit—leggings, raincoat, and sneakers. He’s wearing a casual navy blue jacket, the same luxurious navy as the tux he wore to the benefit last week.

He folds his arms over his chest, gaze flicking over me. “I guess asking where you’re going will get me nothing but a middle finger.”

“I’m going to soccer.” I don’t know why I told him that.

“Why aren’t you taking your car?”

“Something’s wrong with it,” I say absently, glancing up and down the street.

“I thought my dad fixed your spark plugs.”

“He did. I think it’s something else.”

A tense pause. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I give him an alarmed look. “Why would I?”

His throat works before he pulls out his phone. A moment later, he’s speaking Russian. The conversation ends in a few sentences and he slips the phone back in his pocket.

“Let’s go.” He gestures to the hall leading to the garage. “I’m driving you.”

“I’ve already called a ride.”

“Cancel it.”

My shoulders hitch at being told what to do, and again, for thetenth time this hour, I think about us in the library. A shiver runs across my skin, and I take a deep, sobering breath.

I really need to stop thinking about what we did. I open my mouth to protest but he gives me a hard look.

“I’m not letting my wife take a Lyft late at night.”

A light laugh slips out of me. “It’s six pm.”

“It’s dark out.”

We narrow our eyes at each other and my pulse does another one of those excited jumps.

“Georgia.” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose like I’m the most exasperating woman on the planet. “Get in the fucking car before I make you.”

A thrill runs up my spine. In my hand, my phone buzzes with a message. My car is delayed.

He takes a step toward me, glowering. “If I need to?—”

“Okay,fine.” I stand. “Wow. Bossy.” I cancel the ride on my app and head to the garage as my husband’s heavy footsteps sound behind me. “You don’t need to follow me like a bodyguard, Volkov. I’m not going to make a run for it.”

He gives me a dark look, and when I return it with a pretty, patient smile, his jaw flexes.

“Where am I going?” he asks when we climb in the car.

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