I couldn’t think with him behind me, cornering me against the door. We’d always stood close—close enough to watch the room and insult each other’s looks and intelligence with ease. But this was different. Real, volatile anger poured off him, and it was freaking terrifying.
Plainly, and as bland as stale bread, I said, “The way I feel about you, well, it’s put me in a small spot.”
“Tight spot,” he corrected softly.
I didn’t say anything because I was internally shaking. At his closeness, his unexplained anger, the fact I was trapped, and I wasn’t getting out unless he chose to let me go. Just the idea he might touch me sent every nerve ending in my back tingling in expectation.
His hand slid off the door and he stepped away.
I inhaled slowly. Released it.
Turning, I watched him walk to the minibar and grab a glass of clear liquid that sat on the wooden top.
“Go entertain your guests, Gianna.”
A sliver of irritation ran through me. I hated when he told me what to do. Like he was my lord and master, and I just wasn’t aware of it yet.
“That’s what I’m trying to do, but I suppose some guests are just assholes.”
He braced his hands on the bar and turned a dark gaze to me. He wasn’t here for my party but for whatever meeting was happening downstairs. And his expression was making that abundantly clear. But I didn’t care for semantics.
“Where is my present?” I asked, padding toward him on bare feet.
“What? The room next door overflowing with presents isn’t enough for you?”
“Aw, does that make you mad? That I have friends, and you don’t?”
“You need confirmation that everyone adores you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, straight-faced. “So where is my present?” I tapped the front of his watch, and his eyes narrowed on the movement. “Surely your watch is too much? It’s a Rolex.” When he only gave me a dry stare, I sighed. “Okay, if you insist.”
I started to unclasp his watch just to see if he would stop me, to grab my wrist and tell me to quit being annoying like any other man I knew would. He had never touched me. Not once. Not when I’d messed with his tie, taken his glass straight from his hand, or “accidentally” stepped on his foot when he’d told me that at least my blond hair now matched what was inside my head. To be honest, it made me believe he thought I was too lowly to even come into contact with. For a reason I couldn’t explain, it bothered me. And it might’ve been why I touched him even more.
Hands braced on the bar, he only watched me unclasp his watch. My breath grew dense in my lungs. I was simply removing his watch, yet somehow, it felt like I was undoing his belt.
The Rolex slid halfway down my forearm when I put it on, but I still waved it around like I would a new conflict-free diamond ring.
“Thank you,” I said brightly. “I love it.”
We watched each other, and something thick and heavy flowed through the room. He tipped his glass back and took a large sip. I’d say it was water, but I knew it was vodka. The man could drink, and yet he seemed impervious to getting drunk.
I tilted my head. “Where are you from?”
“Iowa.”
A laugh escaped me. “And I’m the Queen of England.” I took his watch off, set it on the bar, and spun it with my finger. “Fine. I know what I want for my birthday.”
“I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“You’re not. But that’s okay. We can’t all have feelings and things.”
He put his watch back on, and I grew distracted by the movement. Allister had the kind of hands that made a woman wonder what they would look like against her skin.
“I want a secret,” I said, adding, “One of yours, of course.”
“And what am I supposed to get out of this?”
“The satisfaction of making me happy.” I flashed him a sweet smile.