Page 8 of Don't Make Me Beg
His chest rises and falls with strained breaths, and I wet my lips as my eyes drift further, my inner artist itching to paint him. His once lanky frame is now replaced with sculpted muscle, which fills out the button-up white dress shirt he’s wearing. My eyes roam over his exposed forearms where black inked tattoos disappear beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeves. I can’t make them out in this dim light, but I find myself wondering when he got them and what the story is behind each one.
Knowing Luka, there’s definitely a story.
The top two buttons of his shirt are undone at the collar, making me think he’s come straight from work. When I drag my eyes down further, I expect to see trousers and dress shoes, but instead, I find that he’s wearing fitted, black cargo pants and leather boots.
What does he do for work?
I should be ashamed that I don’t know the answer to that most basic question. There’s so much I don’t know about him…not that I deserve to. I can only hope that while I’m here, he’ll give me the chance to apologize…for everything.
Luka’s gaze drops to the suitcase sitting by my feet before slowly dragging back up to meet my eyes. I give him an apologetic smile, feeling my coiled muscles begin to sag from the relief of seeing him again.
He clicks his tongue with a humorless laugh. “What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice practically drips in disdain, and all the floaty, happy emotions I was just feeling come squealing down like a deflated balloon.
I guess that answers my question. He most definitely still hates me.
Not wanting him to see that his harsh words have affected me, I wipe my mouth with my napkin and force myself to sit upa little straighter. “Just stopping by to visit my parents. I’ve been meaning to visit and haven’t had a break in my schedule?—"
He narrows his eyes into slits. “What’s with the suitcase?”
His question catches me off guard, and I shift in my seat, suddenly feeling like I’m being interrogated. “Oh…uh…my parents are renovating their guest bedroom, so I’m staying at Inn while I visit. I don’t want to be in the wa?—”
“Is that right?” he snaps, voice low and biting. “And doesColleenknow about that?”
Who does he think he is? I don’t owe him an explanation about where or how long I’ll be staying. I may not be a Kingsley, but Ashford Falls is my home just as much as it is his.
For the first time today, I’m thankful to be wearing a turtleneck. I can feel the heat rushing up my neck, and I don’t need Luka seeing how much he’s getting to me. I cross my arms over my chest in annoyance and lie, “Yes. I’ve already prepaid for the week. Is that okay? Because I didn’t realize I needed your approval.”
Just then, the bartender appears, sliding my debit card back to me without a receipt. “Do you have a different card? This one keeps giving me an error…”
My brows furrow in confusion, and I shake my head. “No. That’s the only card I have. Can you try to run it again? There’s plenty of money in my account; it must be your computer.”
She offers me a sympathetic smile, then leans in and lowers her voice. “I’m so sorry, but it’s not the computer. I’ve tried at least ten times. It says the card’s declined.”
I feel the color drain from my face as panic coils in my stomach. I fumble for my phone and open my banking app. It only takes a few seconds to load, but it feels like an eternity.
Available balance $0.00.
My jaw falls open as I stare at my phone, then back up at the bartender as the panicked realization hits me all at once.
No. It can’t be. They wouldn’t…
“Why don’t we call this a welcome home present?” Luka says before passing his card to the bartender.
A new wave of shame and embarrassment washes over me when I come back to my body and realize he just witnessed everything.
When I turn to face him, he’s biting his lip as if he’s trying to fight back a smile. And it absolutely kills me knowing how much he’s enjoying this. He scribbles a one-hundred-dollar tip on the receipt, then glances back at me with a wink.
Arrogant jerk.
And to think, I was worried about how I’d apologize to him, worried I’d somehow ruined his life. Looks like he’s doing just fine to me.
He pulls out his phone and types something, then pockets his wallet before silently spinning on his heel to leave. He’s almost to the door when he calls over his shoulder, “Welcome home, Scout. I’d say it was nice running into you, but unlike you, I’m not a liar.”
My lips quiver and my eyes burn, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. I’ve already punished myself enough for one day, and he has no idea why I did what I did. I don’t owe him any explanations, especially when it’s clear he’s already made up his mind about me.
The music fades, then the song,Closing Time, cuts in over the speakers, and I take my not-so-subtle cue to leave.
CHAPTER TWO
