Why the fuck is he even here?
“Hope, look at me.” I don’t. I just keep picking up the pieces of broken clay. My mind’s in frantic overdrive. I’m too freaked out to even think about how mad he makes me because I need to remake this ASAP. This piece was paid for, and it wasn’t cheap. All my pieces sell for high prices; it’s one thing I love about what I do. I can earn money from something I love doing… and be left alone in my studio. Ordinarily.
“I don’t have time for your antics,” I hiss, cupping the broken pieces in my hand as I stand and then hurry back to the studio. I might’ve had liquid courage last time I saw Braxton, but then and now are entirely different situations, and I certainly don’t do well with someone coming into my space uninvited.
I quickly realize that he’s following me into my private space. His shoes squeak against the wooden floorboards, and I turn on him. I’m wearing a free-flowing dress and no shoes. I prefer to work barefoot; it makes me feel more grounded. But right now I’m wishing I was wearing heels, as he towers over me with that smug fucking smirk.
“This is private property,” I’m quick to inform him as I push the door open with my hip.
Nope, Braxton takes that as an invitation to follow me.
My studio space is my domain. It’s where I feel most safe and at peace. It’s filled with plants that flourish under the bright sunshine coming in through the skylights. Classical music plays softly in the background and a small water fountain bubbles in the middle of the room. We’re on the top floor of the building, and right now, I’m very tempted to push him out one of the windows when he starts touching my things.
I try not to let him distract me as I throw the pieces into the trash, but my eye twitches as his hands smooth over the face of one of my sculptures. And then he runs them over an eagle’s wings. I drag out some clay so I can prepare to start the sculpture over again. I know the concept by heart, but it took me months to make it. There’s no way I’m going to get it done in time.
Fuck.
I can’t ignore his imposing presence any longer, and besides, I’m fucking furious.He did this.Having a man in my space, especially one that I don’t like, is intolerable.
“What’s wrong, Hope?” he asks, glancing at me as if susceptible to my inner rage.
“I’d like you to leave,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. But my voice is weak, and he smirks.
“You seem to have lost your fire. I remember when you were far more demanding. Or perhaps that’s only when you’re asking to be choked.” Heat floods my core, and I hate it so much that we ever spent any time together. Had I known he was a cop, I would’ve never gone there. Right?
He admires some of the half-finished sculptures on a side table. Some are paid for, and some are not. But most importantly, no one has seen them except for me. I don’t like when people look at my unfinished work. They’ll see the flaws or make suggestions, and it’s infuriating. It’s about my vision, not theirs.
“Is there something I can help you with? If not, I’ll call security and have them show you out.” His presence makes me nervous, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a police officer. It’s just him; his undeniable presence, the way he stares at me like he’s sizing me up as if I’m some sort of prey. That night we spent together thrilled me. But this is something wholly different. There is something darker here. I know because I’m surrounded by men who have that same palpable presence.
“There is. I have a few more questions about the other night I didn’t get to ask before Daddy came and picked you up,” he says with a cocky grin. I know he does it on purpose, to antagonize me. Little does he know, I’ve worked with the press and media for years. I know when someone is baiting me or trying to get an explosive reaction.
“Can we do this another time?” I ask, waving a hand around. “I have work to do.”
“No. You’ll answer my questions now.”
“Why?” I snap, frustrated, a lock of my red hair falling into my face from my loose top bun.
“There she is,” he says, his expression smug.
“What questions do you have?” I sigh and then notice the gun holstered at his hip. His gaze follows mine. The guy’s probably so self-absorbed that he’s thinking I’m staring at his cock. Not that there’s anything wrong with his cock since I know what he’s packing. I swallow hard.
Get your mind out of the gutter.I internally reprimand myself.
“You would be familiar with these, wouldn’t you?” He takes the gun out of the holster and holds it up. “Considering what your father does.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I scoff, knowing exactly what my father does. He and his twin sister, Anya, deal in guns, among other things.
“Yes, of course you’d say that.” He picks up a piece of clay and squeezes it in his hand. He moves around my work table until we’re face-to-face. Only a foot separates us as he leans in and says, “Show me what you do.”
“No.” When I work, I can’t do it with anyone watching me. I have to be alone. “And although I’m sure it makes you feel very strong, intimidating me for whatever reasons, I really have to work.”
“Show me,” he says again.
“No. You need to leave.” I just barely refrain from shoving him out the door. But laying hands on this asshole is the last thing I can do. He’ll cuff me for it, and I don’t have time to play this game.
“Why? What are you going to do, call the police on me?” he asks as his lips thin. “I’ll have you arrested again.”
“Unless you have a warrant, you can kindly leave.” My voice is low and steady, but my glare screams,“You can kindly fuck off.”
