Page 100 of Love Arranged
“If they look? No.”
I didn’t expect his answer to bother me so much.
“What did I say now?” he asks, reading me yet again tonight.
“Nothing important.” Which is exactly my problem because part of mewantsLorenzo to give a damn.
I try to scoot my chair farther away, but he drags it right back before possessively wrapping his hand around the back of my neck.
“Look at me.”
I don’t dare take my eyes away from the dance floor.
Lorenzo squeezes the back of my neck again, silently willing me to listen, and because I’m a glutton for his rejection, I follow his command.
“I can’t get angry at them for something I’ve been guilty of. So let them look. Let themstare. Let them wish they were going home with the most beautiful woman in this bar—in thistown—for all I care. I’ve been there. Many times, in fact, when it comes to you. So if anything, I sympathize with thembecause they can want you, but they’ll never trulyhaveyou.”
My stomach, which finally settled down after Lorenzo last touched me, turns into a giant knot because oh my God. I never expected that kind of response to pour out of his mouth.
Not wanting him to see how much his words affected me, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I don’t know… The blond one is kind of hot.”
A dark look passes over his face. “I’m starting to wonder if you have a thing for blonds.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Only because I’m not one.”
I laugh, and he smiles, and for a second I forget about our goal and live in the moment.
I crack a smile. “You can always bleach it.”
“Would doing so when we’re this close to the mayoral debate be cause for alarm?”
“Absolutely. People only dye their hair or change their clothes if something drastic happens.”
His brows scrunch together. “Drastic?”
Shit. “I mean, I’m talking like from lace to leather or?—”
“Color to monochrome?”
Somehow I refrain from flinching. “That’s normal.”
“How about no longer wearing bows or flowers in their hair?” He tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear before teasing my cheek with the tip of his index finger.
“That could be a sign of maturing.”
“Maybe…but I don’t think that’s what happened.”
My hands clench against my lap—something Lorenzo notices since he refuses to let me have a single inch of distance.
I brush him off with “You’re reaching.”
“And you’re hiding something.”
I glance away, unable to stand the weight of his stare.
