A part of me longs for a cup of coffee, but I recognize it as the crutch it is and walk right past the mug Miles left on the counter, presumably for me. Instead I make my way to the temperature-controlled garage that doubles as Miles’s workshop, trying with each step that I take to figure out what I’m going to say to him.
But when I get there, when I see him hunched over three different computers, spinning back and forth among them, I lose all ability to form coherent words. With his early-morning stubble and his tired eyes and his hair standing on end from the many times he’s run his fingers through it, he looks better than he has any right to. Especially considering he’s dressed in nothing but boxers. Or maybe because of it.
Either way, it’s obvious that he’s been awake all night, even without taking into consideration his undisturbed side of the bed and all that he’s managed to accomplish in the national and international press in the last few hours.
Looking at him, I lose my words—every single one of them—but I must make a sound, because suddenly he whirls to look at me. Then he’s pushing back from the modified workbench that serves as his desk and heading straight for me.
His glorious eyes are narrowed and his jaw is tight as he studies my face, my posture, the way I have my arms folded across my middle as if I need protection from him, this man with his good intentions and bulldozer techniques. This man who has no faith in the system and almost as little in me.
It’s the thought that maybe I do need protection that has me backing up a step for every one that he advances, a fact that—judging by the look on his face—isn’t lost on him. He stops abruptly, several steps away from me, and waits for me to speak.
I have nothing—and everything—to say.
I start with the only thing I can start with. I hold the tablet out to him and ask, voice hoarse and heart in my throat, “Did you do this?”
He barely glances at the tablet before looking back at me, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes them seem fathomless and omniscient. Silence stretches between us, and the longer it goes on, the easier it is for me to see him trying to gauge my mood, trying to handle this, trying to handle me.
But in the end, to his credit, he doesn’t try to lie. He just says, “Yes,” and leans back on his heels to study me.
“Why? Why would you do this without talking to me first?”
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“What are you doing with all these laconic answers? Do you think the fact that you won’t explain yourself makes you look cool?”
He arches a brow and I see it then, see his mask slide into place. I haven’t seen the look since the first morning I showed up here—half devil-may-care and half I’m-an-asshole-and-proud-of-it. I hadn’t even realized it had disappeared until it showed up again.
I can’t say I missed it.
“I am explaining myself,” he tells me. “You just don’t like what I’m saying.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, any more than I understand why you did this without so much as consulting me.”
“What was there to consult you about? You didn’t want to do the interview. I made it so you didn’t have to. I’m not going to apologize for that.”
The utter arrogance of his statement has me staring at him openmouthed. “Are you serious?”
“What do you want me to say, Tori? I care about you and I did what I thought was best for you. What’s wrong with that?”
“Do you hear yourself? You did what was best for me?”
“Damn right I did.”
“You don’t get to do this,” I tell him, working hard to keep my voice level. “You don’t get to make choices like this for me just because you think you know what’s best—”
“I do know what’s best.” He nods toward the tablet. “Especially in this case. The press is totally on your side now and they’re crucifying Parsons. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Yes. I did want that, so much I’m a little ashamed to admit it. But still…“What about this poor girl? What about the fact that you’ve brought back everything that happened to her? How do you think she’s feeling this morning?”
“Maybe vindicated that the asshole who got away is finally being forced to pay? And if Parsons is as big a weasel as we both think he is, he’ll probably roll on everyone else who was involved. Maybe she’ll finally get justice.”
“That’s if he’s arrested.”
“Oh, he’ll be arrested. I made sure of it.”
He closes the gap between us then, and reaches for me. But he freezes, arm outstretched, when I stiffen and scoot back until my back is literally against the garage wall.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?” I demand. “Why didn’t you see if this was what I wanted before you did it?”