Page 8 of Taming Liberty

“I need to go back to the manor,” I say, opening my eyes. I look at Angel and try not to see him as that stranger. “Please.”

“Why?” He scrutinizes me like I’m a puzzle he can’t seem to solve.

He doesn’t realize that I know who he is. Sawyer must not have told him.

“I just do.”

He covers his chin and runs his thumb over stubble, his typically pristine shave neglected for a day.

When he drops his hand, he reaches out to take mine. I tense but don’t pull away.

“It’s four in the morning. You’re not going anywhere right now, but if you don’t feel like you can go back to sleep, we could have a drink? In a few hours, if you still feel like you need to go back, we can talk about it then.”

He squeezes my hand and stands, urging me to come with him even though I never accepted his invitation. I obey the silent command and follow him out of the guest room and down the stairs, silently wondering just how different he is from Robert. Just how fucking ironic is this?

When we make it to the kitchen, he lets go of my hand and walks to the liquor cabinet. I cross my arms over my chest and peer around the room, my eyes landing on the door leading to the cellar I saw the night I broke in to find a phone.

Glasses knock against the countertop, and I turn just as Angel lifts the liquor bottle to pour. He meets my eyes, ponders something for a few moments, then he pours two fingers of whiskey into one glass.

“Why have you never offered me any wine?” I ask, my voice soft and low. It’s weird, but I’m afraid of his answer, even though I want to hear it. I want to know how he looks when he lies to me. I want to watch for tells.

“Would you prefer wine?” he asks as he sets the whiskey bottle down without pouring the other drink.

I shrug. “I’m just curious. You have all that fancy wine in your cellar, but I’ve never seen you drink it.”

“Mmm.” He fills the other glass then screws the lid back on the bottle.

“So … why?”

He picks up both glasses and walks them to the table. When he looks at me, he genuinely appears confused. “Why what?”

“Why haven’t you offered me wine?”

He sets both glasses down with a clank. “Because I didn’t realize you liked wine. If you wanted some, you should’ve asked. I prefer whiskey.”

“Do you, though?”

He leans against the table, blinking at me. “What are you talking about?”

I clear my throat, summoning my courage before I step toward him. “I just think it’s weird for someone to dedicate so much space for something they don’t have a preference for.”

He tilts his head, and I search for some sign of guilt or nervousness, but I spot nothing. For a moment, I think maybe I’m crazy. Maybe it’s a coincidence that I told him I have a wine allergy and he’s never offered me a glass. Maybe the wine cellar is just something he has because he’s rich and can have one. Robert has a respectable collection that only gets brought out when guests are over, so it isn’t completely far-fetched.

Ormaybe Angel is just full of shit.

I blow out a breath. “Never mind.”

He blinks and gives his head a shake like he does in fact think I’m crazy, and it sends steam whistling from my ears.

He pulls out a chair then holds his hand out toward it, so I walk over to it and plop down. When he goes to sit, my words stop him.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, could you get me a glass of Chardonnay?”

He looks at me quizzically, and I force a smile.

“Any year’s fine.”

After several seconds, he lets go of the chair’s back and nods. “Sure.”

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