I haven’t even seen him since the night Liam saved me. Beaten, soggy and humiliated, Paul had run away with his tail between his legs, and that’s exactly where I wanted him to stay—away.

My eyes move across the page without absorbing a single word. Why is he here? Is he staying? What’s his mood like? A dozen similar questions run across my mind, but I keep my eyes on my book so he doesn’t try to talk to me either way.

I hear Paul drop his jeans and toss them into the laundry corner (there’s a basket along the same wall, but he’d die before dropping his clothes into it). I sigh irritably, turning the page just for something to do.

“Gettin’ good?”

I glance at him over the edge of the book again with dead eyes.

He attempts a half smile that comes across more as a grimace. “Your book. You always… start making noises when it gets good or starts aggravating you.”

I stare.

“Little impatient noises,” he adds, and I can’t imagine why he’s still talking. “It’s cute.”

Now I scowl, but I just go back to my book without replying. He’s confusing me and that’s probably what the bastard is going for, so I’ll just ignore him.

Try to get me to lower my guard, motherfucker. Tell me I’m cute. Stupid cow.

“You know you were reading a book the first time I saw you?”

I can’t believe he’s still talking to me, and still nicely, when I’m only giving back unceasing disinterest. Also, I couldn’t care less what I was doing when he first saw me. I wish I would’ve been ass-naked, fucking someone else, because then he probably wouldn’t have fixated on owning me.

“You didn’t see me,” he continues, for some reason. “But you were so wrapped up in your book, and you kept sighing and glaring at the pages, and then a minute later you’d grin, all giddy, and you’d laugh, and you swore at it a time or two. I couldn’t look away. I remember thinking that I’d bet you were that passionate in everything you did.”

I’m not glaring anymore, but I’m not pretending to read anymore, either. I glance up at him uncertainly, not understanding this game.

Finally, Paul drops my gaze and says, “I brought food.”

It’s after ten, but I don’t say that. Usually I would, but he seems like he’s in a sad mood tonight, and I’m not in the mood to kick him.

I reluctantly put my book down on the bedside table and wrap my crocheted shawl around me, trekking behind him toward the door.

I steal one last glance back at the bedroom windows, but it’s as fruitless as it has been all the other times I’ve looked tonight; Liam isn’t there.

I wish I understood why.

Paul is unpacking containers on the kitchen counter and I catch a strong whiff of my favorite Italian takeout. We never get it because it’s pricey and fattening and takes more than five minutes to pick and purchase.

Curious, I peek into the bag and see he even got a chocolate cannoli for dessert. Just one to split, because they’re so sweet—a whole one gives me a tummy ache.

I finally speak, because my curiosity has gotten the best of me. “What’s all this?”

“We haven’t had it in a while.” He scoots my container of fettuccine closer to me. “It used to be your favorite.”

I’m puzzled by this sudden trip down memory lane, and even more baffled by his desire to drag me along, when I was never along for the ride to begin with. There were no good memories of us, I’d made sure of it. I was venom in a white lace dress at our sham wedding, and I never got nicer. If he retained even a hand full of nice memories, he must have collected them through pure delusion.

Years of carefully nurtured hatred and disdain, and here he was, reminiscing.

Without waiting for him, I take my food over to the table and sit down. I forgot to grab a drink, and a moment later he emerges from the fridge with two sodas instead of just one for himself. He pushes one across the table at me, reminding me of when he used to do that all the time.

I’d forgotten about that.

My distrust of him grows by the second. Fear suddenly slices through me and I’m caught off guard by the thought, Is this it? Is this the night he finally kills me?

My favorite meal for a last meal, reminiscing over nice—if one-sided—memories like we’re already at my funeral. Serving me a drink like he used to when he didn’t hate me so much.

I didn’t know how he was going to react to what Liam did. He was accustomed to me coming up against him, but I’m small, I can’t hurt him. Liam stepping in, that was something different. That wasn’t even “pick on someone your own size,” that was David and Goliath.

Tags: Sam Mariano Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net