“I’m not yours!”
His expression shifts—something almost frustrated, like I just said the wrong thing.
“You keep saying that,” he adds. “Like I don’t get it.”
“Do you?” I challenge.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping even closer. “I do.”
My back hits the edge of the desk.
I don’t remember moving.
I don’t remember him closing the distance.
But here we are.
“And that’s the problem,” he continues, voice lower now. “Because no matter what I do, you still feel like mine, linda. And me? I don’t act like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you matter,” he says bluntly.
The words hit like a shock to the system.
I suck in a breath.
“That’s—” I shake my head. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.”
His hand lifts like he’s going to touch me—then he stops.
Midair.
Like he’s fighting himself.
“I’ve known you what—two weeks?” he goes on. “And I’m sitting in my car watching your shop open in the morning like some kind of psycho.”
My eyes widen.
“You’ve been—what?”
“Exactly,” he mutters. “Not normal.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree, my heart now doing something very erratic in my chest.
“But I can’t seem to stop.”
The honesty in his voice strips me bare.
Leaves me with nothing to hide behind.
“You don’t know me,” I say, softer now.
“I know enough.”
“That’s not how this works.”