I don’t need to explain myself. I don’t owe her any sort of explanation regarding my work and how I conduct business, but I still find my gut churning. I want to see that fire in her eyes again.

“Aren’t you going to ask what could possibly be more important than your sister?”

She glances in my direction, those cut-down eyes moving over my face for a brief second before they return to her food. “Why would I ask that? I already know the answer.”

“And what would that be?” I ask.

“That it’s none of my business.” She sets her fork and knife down and says, “I know where I stand in your scale of importance, Huxley. Explanation is not needed.”

She pushes from the table, stands, and heads toward the stairs.

“You’re not done with your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” she says as she walks up the stairs, her robe billowing away from her legs.

She’s just going to leave like that?

With nothing else to say?

No fire?

No snarky comment?

No furious glance in my direction?

That won’t do.

Eyes still fixed on the stairs, my mind whirls with what to do. I’ve never dealt with emotion when it comes to business, so I’m in uncharted territory here. But I hate to admit Breaker might be right. I need Lottie to be a solid participant in this scheme, and if she’s upset, I’m not sure she’ll be willing to work with me the way I need her to.

But how the fuck do I make her happy without getting too involved?

I blow out a heavy breath of frustration and then push away from the table and charge up the stairs behind her. Not sure what I’m going to do, but I can’t let her walk away like that.

She’s almost to her room when I catch up to her. “You can’t go to bed hungry,” I say, unsure of what else to say.

“I can do whatever the hell I want,” she says, a touch of that edge coming back to her voice.

That’s what I wanted to hear. A snappy response. Keep pressing, Hux.

Reaching out, I take her hand and pull her back before she can go any farther. She whips around to face me, her expression registering shock. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asks, that spark in full force now.

Better.

“Reminding you who’s in charge.”

She attempts to yank her hand away, but instead of letting go, I lift her hand up and press it against the wall behind her.

Her eyes widen as I keep her hand held tightly above her.

“No need to remind me who’s in charge. Your obscene inability to care about others is quite clear. What you say, goes.”

“Is that so?” I ask, wanting to push her further, wanting to drag that personality back out. So, I grip her hip with my free hand and steady her against the wall. “Then how come you’re always testing me?”

“How do I test you?” she asks. Her chest heaves as it rises and falls at a more rapid rate.

“Do you consider this proper dinner attire?” I ask her, playing with the tie of her robe, gauging her reaction as something comes over me. Something . . . primal.

But this primal side seems to draw out her personality. It seems to breathe life back into her snarky self.

And that’s what I want.

I want Lottie back.

I understand this is crossing the line—touching her, pinning her against the wall like this—but seeing her so sullen, so defeated, awoke something inside of me. I don’t handle situations like this well, I don’t know how to cheer someone up—that’s obvious from the way I’m pressing her buttons rather than showing empathy—but my brain doesn’t seem to work the way it needs to.

“Wasn’t aware there was a dress code for dinner.” She glances at my suit pants and rolled-up dress shirt. “Was it business casual? Would you prefer it if I wore my dress instead?”

“I would prefer it if you came back downstairs and finished dinner.”

“I told you I wasn’t hungry,” she shoots back.

Talking sternly, I say, “And I see that as an excuse to not be around me. It was business, Lottie. Nothing you need to take personally.”

“Not take personally?” she retorts. “Jesus, I’m so sick of you saying that bullshit.” She goes to move, but I hold her in place. “It’s hard not to take everything you do personally when there’s emotion attached to it for me. I can’t be so black and white like you. I have feelings, Huxley.”

“Then tell me what you’re feeling.”

Her chin lifts. “You can’t handle what I’m feeling.”

“Try me.”

She pauses.

Studies me.

Then . . .

She wets her lips. “Fine. I’m mad at myself for getting involved in this mess. I’m mad that I fucked up my sister’s meeting today, one that she worked hard preparing for, given the short notice. I’m furious that I don’t have enough courage to tell my mom that she was right, that I never should’ve taken that job with Angela. I hate that my pride is more important than the truth. And most of all”—her eyes scan me up and down—“I’ve never despised someone as much as I despise you. I think you’re cold, baseless, and have no regard for anyone but yourself. I hate that I have to rely on you, that you need to rely on me, and most importantly”—she catches her breath and her fingers curl around my hand that’s pinning her arm to the wall—“I hate that I think you’re even remotely attractive.”

A light sheen of sweat breaks out at the nape of my neck as I feel this urge to pull her forcibly toward me.

I’ve seen the way she looks at me. I’ve noticed her wandering eyes, but she’s never voiced her appreciation before.

And, fuck, it makes me feel weak. Weak enough to succumb . . .

“You don’t need to be angry. Your sister will get another chance. I told you, the phone call was important.” My tone is clipped as I watch her lips part ever so slightly, just enough to entice me.

Enough to drive me wild. Just enough to make my will slip.

“I don’t believe you.” Her voice is firm yet soft, and the sound of it pounds another crack into my wall.

My hand presses harder against her hip.

My thumb strokes the soft fabric of the robe.

And to my satisfaction, a low, almost inaudible moan falls past her lips.

“Karla should’ve already contacted your sister about setting up another meeting.” The push and pull between us intensifies as my fingers itch to touch her more, to slip under her robe. “It’s done. As for your guilt about not telling your mom the truth, that’s on you and none of my goddamn business.”

I grip her hand tighter, the one that’s pinned against the wall, and when her fingers curl around mine, another part of me becomes unhinged. The need for this woman pummels me, and I can feel myself holding on by a thread.

Continuing, I say, “And your hatred for me . . . you should know that hatred isn’t mutual.”

Her piercing eyes match mine. Her voice wavers as she says, “You’ve only ever expressed distaste for me.” But that waver in her voice doesn’t match the boldness in her actions as she takes hold of my hand resting on her hip and slowly shifts it inward . . .

Until my fingers tangle with the tie of her robe.

Don’t fucking tempt me.

I may be able to separate business and pleasure, but when the line starts to blur, when my mind feels foggy and confused, there may not be any stopping me.

And I feel confused.

I feel so goddamn foggy.

My body hums with indecision, the wrong decision pulling me closer and closer to her.

“I’ve expressed annoyance, frustration, irritation, but not hate. You’re the one who has expressed hate.” My finger toys with the silk ribbon. “I have no problem with you.”

“Liar,” she says.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“You haven’t given me reason to,” she says. Her hand glides up my chest, stopping at my shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

My teeth roll over my bottom lip as I gently tug on the tie of her robe.

She doesn’t protest.

Instead, her body moves closer to mine.