This building is supposed to have excellent security.
He exhales, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t do just that exactly.”
My stomach drops.
He shifts the bags in his hands and steps farther in. “It’s good security, but if someone wants to get in,” he says, “they can.”
I hold his gaze, baffled and angry and—uncomfortably—relieved all at once that he’s taking this seriously.
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“It means your building security isn’t as adequate as I’d like,” he says simply.
I stare at him for another beat, then pay attention to his duffel bags.
I swallow, forcing myself to focus on something that isn’t how exposed my legs are or the fact that he can apparently get through my building with two big bags with no problem.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” I say, gesturing down the hall. “You can take the spare bedroom.”
Antonio’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his gaze firms. “I prefer the couch.”
I blink. “Why? It’s not even big enough for you.”
“It’s the best place for me to be,” he says. “Security-wise. I’m between you and the front door. I can hear the elevator. I can see the entry. I can move fast.”
So much for putting him behind a closed door, I think, bitterness flashing sharp in my chest.
I force my voice steady. “Fine.”
And then, because I can’t help it, I add, “I didn’t realize you were going to… audit my entire building.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t even begun.”
He walks in with his bags, and I step aside for him to pass without brushing against me. I watch as he sets both bags on the floor at the end of the couch and pulls the zipper open on one of the bags.
“I didn’t really take you for a two-suitcase kind of guy,” I say, walking closer.
He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me, and for the first time since he walked in, a real smile touches his mouth.
“Only one is personal,” he says.
My brows knit. “And the other?”
His smile fades back into business. “Supplies.”
Supplies.
The word makes me catch my breath. Vague. My brain wants to picture the worst. Weapons, or whatever else someone like Antonio might be too familiar with.
I move to the couch because standing makes me feel too exposed. I sit on the edge and tuck one leg under me, a small, nervous instinct that I hate because it makes me feel… smaller.
“Like this,” he says, obviously sensing my nerves.
He pulls out a laptop and sets it on the coffee table, followed by a slim case and a pouch that clinks softly when he sets it down.
My throat tightens.
“What is all that?” I ask.