Page 5 of The Temptation
Right now, though, I’m contemplating stabbing him with a fork.
I’m not sure what went wrong between us, but we’ve somehow gone from friends to borderline enemies.
From the very beginning, I knew my age was a factor for him—he told me as much—but when he killed one of Papa’s most feared guards for hurting me, I took that as a sign.
The grand gesture I’d been waiting for.
The kind of thing I read about in my romance novels. A dramatic act by the hero that proves the depth of his feelings for the heroine. It’s the emotional climax that shows he’s willing to risk everything for the one he loves.
It was my little glimmer of hope that maybe he saw me as more than just jail bait. That deep down, under all his brooding, he actually had feelings for me.
He even sat by my bedside at the hospital and held myhand while the doctor poked and prodded me within an inch of my life.
The murderous glare the medical staff received every time I flinched in pain had me worrying that more blood was going to be shed that day.
When it came to me, though, Romeo was nothing but protective, caring, and attentive. It made my stupid heart soar, but things between us seemed to have gone downhill from there.
I get it, I do. Thirteen years is a significant age gap, but I’m nineteen now—an adult—and for me, age is just a number. There are eleven years between my sister and her husband, and they have made their marriage work.
I blow out a frustrated breath as I cross the main room. Like the rest of the house, I find his kitchen immaculate and very modern. From the outside, his home is nothing special, just a small, old brick-veneer house, but inside, it’s so lovely and surprisingly …neat. For a man who lives alone, that part shocked me.
He might have a maid, or maybe his mother comes over to clean for him. I refuse to consider the possibility of a girlfriend. The idea of someone else loving him makes me feel physically ill.
He’s mine!
Well, in my head, he is.
I open the fridge, bending slightly to peer inside, and find it pretty sparse. A lone, large, uncooked steak sits on a plate, covered in plastic wrap. There’s a carton of milk, a couple of eggs, some tomato sauce, and half a dozen bottles of beer. That’s it. No fruit, no vegetables.
The cupboards aren’t much better. Aside from some salt, pepper, a bottle of olive oil, coffee beans, and a shitload of canned dog food, there’s not much else.
I go back to the fridge, grab the steak and a beer, crack the top, and take a long chug as I search for a frying pan.
The bitter taste of the liquid sliding down my throat makes me screw up my face in disgust. Australian beer might be the best I’ve ever had, but it’s still not my drink of choice. I’m more of a hard liquor kind of girl.
As if on cue, once I’ve seared one side of the meat and flipped it over, Romeo enters the kitchen. I swear I sensed him before I saw him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“Cooking Ki-Ki some lunch since he hasn’t eaten today.”
“There’s dog food in the cupboard.”
“I noticed,” I grumble with a slight grimace. “Ki-Ki won’t be eating thatmerda disgustosa(Disgusting shit) on my watch.”
“It’s not shit, it’s dog food,” he snaps. “And his name is Killer.”
“Would you eat it?” I ask as I reach for my beer and take another swig.
“No!” he growls. “Because I’m not a fucking dog. And give me that,” he adds, snatching the beer out of my hand. “Do you always walk into people’s houses and help yourself to their things?”
I part my lips, a snarky comeback already on the tip of my tongue, but my words catch in my throat. I’m stopped short when he lifts the bottle I just drank from and brings it to his mouth. I can’t look away as his lips close around the rim, his Adam’s apple shifting with each swallow.
This man is such a conundrum. One minute, he’s yanking me off his bed as if I’ve somehow tainted it, and the next, he’s casually drinking from the same bottle I just had my lips on. Make it make sense.
I narrow my eyes. “I believe you invited me in.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to help yourself to whatever you want. That piece of rib-eye cost me thirty dollars.”
