His head lifts slightly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” I fire back. “It was all over you.”
The way you stood.
The way you looked at him.
The way you stepped between us like—like I was yours.
Those thoughts make my stomach flip in a way I absolutely do not appreciate.
“I wasn’t trying to lay claim to you,” he says, voice low.
“Yeah? No shit. But exactly what were you doing?”
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Loaded.
He takes a step closer.
Not aggressive.
Not pushing.
But deliberate.
“I was making sure no one crossed a line you didn’t want crossed.”
My breath catches.
“That’s not your job.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
Another step.
Now we’re close enough that I can feel the heat of him again. That same pull from the kitchen. That same dangerous, electric awareness.
“Then stop acting like it is.”
His gaze drops—just for a second—to my mouth.
Then back up.
“I’m trying,” he says quietly.
That does not make me feel better.
“If this is how you are with women,” I continue, even though my voice has softened without my permission, “I’m not one of your L.A. girls, David. I’m not?—”
“I know that.”
The interruption is sharp.
Immediate.