you okay with all your stuff being here? I want
you to share my room,” he murmurs.
Whoa, quick change of direction.
“Yes.”
“I want you sleeping with me. I don’t ha一ve nightmares
“I want you sleeping with me. I don’t ha一ve nightmares
when you’re with me.”
“You ha一ve nightmares?”
“Yes.”
I tighten my hold around him. Holy cow. More
baggage. My heart contracts for this man.
“I was just getting my clothes ready for work
tomorrow,” I mutter.
“Work!” Christian exclaims as if it’s a dirty word, and
he releases me, glaring.
“Yes, work,” I reply, confused by his reaction.
He stares at me with complete incomprehension. “But
Leila—she’s out there,” he pauses. “I don’t want you to
go to work.”
What? “That’s ridiculous, Christian. I ha一ve to go to
work.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I ha一ve a new job, which I enjoy. Of course I ha一ve to
go to work.” What does he mean?
“No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
“No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
“Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my
thumbs while you’re off being Master of the Universe?”
“Frankly . . . yes.”
Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . give me strength.
“Christian, I need to go to work.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I. Do.” I say it slowly as if he’s a child.
He scowls at me. “It’s not safe.”
“Christian . . . I need to work for a living, and I’ll be
fine.”
“No, you don’t need to work for a living—and how do
you know you’ll be fine?” He’s almost shouting.
What does he mean? He’s going to support me? Oh,
this is beyond ridiculous—I’ve known him for what—five
weeks?
He’s angry now, his gray eyes stormy and flashing, but
I don’t give a shit.
“For hea一ven’s sake, Christian, Leila was standing at
the end of your bed, and she didn’t harm me, and yes, I
do need to work. I don’t want to be beholden to you. I
ha一ve my student loans to pay.”
His mouth presses into a grim line, as I place my hands
on my hips. I am not budging on this. Who the fuck does
he think he is?
“I don’t want you going to work.”
“It’s not up to you, Christian. This
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