“Stop!” I cry, recalling his threat about putting me over his shoulder and carrying me out of the house, whether or not I’m finished packing or even wearing shoes. “Stop right there, you psycho!”
He keeps coming.
“Don’t you lay a hand on me, Gallagher!”
Still coming.
“You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”
His lips twist into a dark grin — actually it’s more of a grimace — and my mouth goes dry at the sight.
He totallywoulddare.
We do a full circle around the jewelry island, like we’re playing some absurd game of tag. When he comes back to the empty duffle bag, he pauses momentarily and bends to pick it up off the floor.
“I’m in a generous mood,” he informs me.
I snort in disbelief.
He ignores the sound, extending the duffle out to me across the island. “One last chance.”
My heart is thudding. “You… I… Oh, for fuck’s sake.Fine!”
Snarling, I snatch the duffle from his grip and start shoving clothing inside. Not that I honestly believe this crazed gun-toting stranger is about to toss me over his shoulder like a sack of flour and haul me out of my house…
Right?
He’s obviously exaggerating,the reckless part of my brain says smugly.Let’s see what’ll happen if you disobey. It’s good to be bad!
Hey! Don’t test him!the sensible part of my brain warns.We’ve already been manhandled enough in the past twenty-four hours. Let’s quit while we’re behind.
I shove both voices out of my head and focus on the task at hand. Namely, grabbing an equal distribution of tops and pants and underwear for my unexpected vacation with Conor Asshole Gallagher. It would help if I knew where I was going or what occasion I was packing for…
Light layers?
Sweater weather?
Summer sunshine?
Arctic tundra?
A location would be great. Hell, I’d settle for a continent to narrow things down somewhat. But seeing as my new companion has already beenoh so receptiveto my previous questions, I highly doubt he’ll be forthcoming on the subject of attire.
In the end, I wind up with a messy hodgepodge — a handful of sundresses and sweaters, two pairs of sandals, my favorite jeans, a floppy sunhat, and all the underwear I can manage to fit without bursting the zipper of my bag. By the time I’m done, the duffle is so full I have to sit on it to get it closed. And believe you me, isnoteasy to maintain your dignity in front of a cocky, condescending man you despise with every fiber of your being while you’re sitting on the floor of your walk-in closet, straddling a leather duffle bag like it’s a mechanical bull, jerking the treads closed inch by inch and praying like hell you don’t have to start removing lacey undergarments by the handful.
Please, someone hire a sniper to assassinate me.
Right here, right now. Put me out of my misery.
The zipper closes with a finalzzzzzp!and I slowly dismount. Scrambling to my feet, I know my cheeks are burning. I can’t bring myself to glance Conor’s way. It’s far too mortifying.
“Finally ready?” he asks in a choked voice.
“Finally going to tell me where the hell we’re headed?” I retort in a pissy tone.
I bend to grab the strap of my bag, but he beats me to it in a surprising show of chivalry. His face is solemn as ever as he slings it over one shoulder, but I notice there’s a slight twitching at the left corner of his mouth — as though he’s fighting off a smile — when he turns for the door.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I mutter darkly.