Page 128 of The Fine Line
I don’t even know if that’s true.
“Let’s go,” he says, already moving, tugging me behind him.
“No.” I wrench against his grip. “Let go of me. I don’t want to go anywhere with you?—”
Rhett stops short, spinning around so fast I nearly crash into him. He catches me by the shoulder just in time. “Cool it, Cub,” he murmurs. “Three o’clock.”
My brows pull together. “What?”
He jerks his head to the side, and I follow his line of sight.
Linda. Standing less than ten feet away, eyes fixed on us as she claps politely along with the rest of the crowd.
I suck in a slow breath, forcing down the volcanic rage still bubbling just under the surface. Instead, I dig my nails into Rhett’s hand.
“Fine,” I grit out. “Let’s go.”
We don’t speak.
Not during the walk to the door, not as we climb into his Range Rover, not the entire drive home.
Not even in the elevator, though the silence grows heavier with each passing floor.
I watch the numbers above the doors tick from 18 to 19.
Ding.
As soon as the doors slide open, I fly out.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear Rhett’s footsteps behind me—measured at first, then growing quicker to match my pace. I can feel the weight of his stare drilling into the back of my head, the heat of it crawling down my spine.
It only makes me walk faster.
By the time I reach our apartment door, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the key into the lock. The whole thing feels like a horror movie—me fumbling with the key, Rhett stalking closer like Michael Myers in designer dress shoes.
The only difference—he should be the one afraid of me.
The key finally catches just as I hear his steps approach. He doesn’t speak, but I feel the brush of his arm against mine, the warmth of his breath at my neck as he reaches forward.
“Cub—”
“Do not touch me,” I snap, just as the lock clicks. I shove the door open and stride into the apartment like it’s a battlefield I intend to burn to the ground.
“Would you just talk to me for a minute?” Rhett calls after me, his voice frustrated and pleading all at once.
I toss my purse down on the kitchen island without looking back. “Not interested.”
I try to walk away, but his hand wraps around my wrist. Before I can react, he spins me back toward him. I stumbleslightly, grabbing the counter for balance, then yank off my heels one by one, gripping them by the straps as I stand tall on bare feet.
I glare up at him, fully expecting him to start defending himself, but he doesn’t.
He just watches me.
“What?” I snap.
“Why are you trembling?”
I rear back, blinking. “Because I’m angry.”
