Page 82 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
Too tired, one could argue, to give a flying fuck.
So what if he sees? What would it matter at this point?
I didn’t have an answer to that, so I remained seated.
The first thing I noticed when our eyes locked was that my theory was correct. He hadn’t slept.
The second thing? He looked like he’d been run over by a tractor full of angst, regret, and palpable self-loathing. It was etched into the soft skin underneath his eyes, loomed over him like a black and bruised cloud.
He stopped short when he saw me, the fatigue and remorse in his expression deepening as he clocked my blotched skin, the accompanying tears.
The door shut.
“You’re crying.”
“No,” I deadpanned, crossing my arms, “I’m not.”
A cold tear tickled at my chin, and my fingers itched to scratch at the spot. But I waited it out, relieved when it finally fell.
Dominic went to kick off his leather lace-ups but thought better of it. Apparently, this wasn’t going to take long.
“You made breakfast.”
“Great observational skills, Dommy,” I cooed with a wide, sarcastic smile, pitching my voice close to something one would use while dealing with a toddler. “Whatelsecan you spot?”
His lips pressed together. His chin dropped in acknowledgment. He deserved that.
“I made breakfast because that was our deal,” I pointed out, lowering my tone to my usual pitch. I pushed to my feet, tossing my used cutlery into my bowl. “You gave me a ride yesterday, I owe you three meals today.”
“Right.”
I threw everything in the sink, deciding to worry about it later. He was still lingering a few feet away from the door, holding two lidded cups of what I assumed was the coffee he’d trekked across the continent to fetch.
His shirt was missing two buttons.
It looked ridiculous.
“Here.” He held one out for me, his gaze snagging on my tearstained cheeks before he forced himself to look away, jaw flexing.
“Gee, thanks.” I grabbed it from him, immediately tossing the lid so I could take a real sip. It was hot, tasted fresh. I took a moment, savoring the first hit before I asked, “How’d you manage to keep it so hot for so long?”
He couldn’t even look at me.
Fucking coward.
“I mean, a ten, fifteen-minute delay I could understand—a proper double sleeve or a built-in warmer in your cup holder would carry you through that—butthree hours, nowthat’simpressive.” I took another big gulp, one hand braced on my hip as I started pacing. “How about another deal? You spill your temp-control secrets, and in return, I won’t put spider eggs in your?—”
“You win.”
I paused midstep. “Excuse me?”
“You win,” he repeated gruffly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “I’m done.”
Wait.
What did that mean?
“I win, as in…”
