Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

I kept my mouth shut as the minutes passed. Fifteen minutes was like an age. It wasn’t until we reached the Sweetser Circle on the Parkway and Michael didn’t come off onto Broadway in Everett that I opened my mouth. “Where are you going?”

He kept driving down the Parkway. “Chelsea.”

“Why?”

Michael flicked me a look before staring straight ahead. He was surprisingly calm. “My apartment is in Chelsea.”

My pulse skittered.

Alone with Michael. In his apartment.

Nope.

“Turn around and take me back to Dad’s.”

The bastard ignored me and kept driving. I stewed on this new indignation until he pulled to a stop outside a three-decker in Chelsea.

He’d parked with the passenger side to the sidewalk, and I looked up at the building, curious and fearful all at once.

“Let’s go inside.”

“I’m not going in there. This is kidnapping, Michael.”

“Stop being so fuckin’ melodramatic,” he said without heat.

“Melodramatic?” I clenched my teeth. “You manhandled me into the car. As a cop, you know that’s not right.”

“I know you. If you didn’t want to be here, there is no way I could have gotten you in the car. Now get out.” He pushed open his door, slammed it shut, and came around the hood of the car to open mine.

Michael’s dark gaze shuttered. “Will you get out of the car or do I need to bring out my cuffs?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I growled as I launched myself out of the vehicle.

When he tried to retake hold of my arm, I yanked it away from him and hurried up the stoop to the front entrance.

In favor of the cold day, I’d donned the only pair of boot-cut jeans I owned and a pair of high-heeled boots. They were much more comfortable to run away from him in than the high heels I’d worn the last time I’d seen him. Only I didn’t appear to be running away, did I?

I felt his attention as he opened the front door, but I refused to look at him. He muttered something under his breath.

“You do realize I’ve got whiplash?” I followed him upstairs to his apartment.

He frowned down over his shoulder at me. “What?”

“Emotional whiplash. You banged a mental Uey so fast, I can feel the burn of it up my goddamn neck.” I could also hear my Boston accent getting thicker with every angry sentence out of my mouth.

Michael didn’t answer as he led me to the door on the second floor and I took that to mean he knew I was right about the whiplash.

As soon as I walked inside his apartment, some of my ire died. Michael hit the lights, illuminating everything. Or, well, nothing actually. The place was almost unlived in. Bare walls, blinds at the windows but no curtains. No photos. Nothing personal at all.

It was depressing.

I hated that for him, even if I was angrier at him than I’d ever been in my life.

The apartment door slammed behind me, and I slowly turned inside the airy sitting room to face him. Michael dropped his keys on a side table that had a lamp with a dull beige shade on it. Then he met my gaze. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

I lifted my chin, ignoring the piercing hurt as I remembered everything he’d said. “Which part?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”