Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Anson walked into her bedroom, carrying a cup of coffee.
She’d been in here for a few hours and he wanted to check on her. Last night, after they’d had sex, she’d slept in his bed. But this morning, she’d claimed to have some work to do and shut herself up in here.
He didn’t even know what sort of work she did.
Walking in, he heard the shower going. She had her laptop open on the bed and a notebook open next to it.
Anson didn’t know why he walked over to the notebook, why he started to read it.
But as soon as he did, his body grew cold. He picked it up, certain he must be reading the words wrong.
However, there was no mistaking what was written there.
Notes about him.
His injury. His temperament. His appearance.
That . . . that bitch.
Picking up the notebook, he carried it out to the dining room and set it down on the table. Then he headed to the alcohol cabinet. He didn’t drink often. It wasn’t wise with the medication he was on. But he needed something.
About twenty minutes later, she walked out carrying the cup of coffee. There was a soft look on her face and a small smile.
“Thank you for my coffee.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he demanded.
“What?”
“I found the notebook. I found the stuff you wrote. If you wanted to keep it a secret from me, then you should have hidden the notebook. Not very smart.”
“What notebook? What are you talking about?” she asked.
“The notebook where you wrote about me,” he told her. “I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want to know why. I just want you to get out.”
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t write about you. What are you talking about?”
“Your notebook that I found in your room. You wrote things about me in it.”
“I . . . I . . .”
Fuck. She was good, he’d give her that. She looked upset and confused. But he knew that she was a liar.
“What is rule two?” he asked.
“Um, I don’t know. Was it about saying sorry?” She rubbed at her forehead.
“You know damn well it’s about not invading my privacy. Writing about me is invading my privacy! The roads are clear, you are free to go. So. Go.”
He thought she was going to say something, to argue, but she simply put down her coffee mug then fled into the bedroom.
She came out about ten minutes later with her suitcase. She didn’t attempt to get any of the food she’d brought with her.
“Thanks for letting me stay with you,” she said, her gaze on her feet.
He nearly felt bad, he came close to asking her to stay, to explain. But he quickly hardened his resolve. He wouldn’t be swayed by her sad face.
Who knew what she planned to do with the information she’d found out about him?
And why had she fucked him? Was that going to feature in her article?
Fuck.
Was her whole nervous and sweet demeanor an act?
Such a good actress.
“Go. Now!”
The door shut behind her and he turned back to the alcohol cabinet.
One drink wasn’t going to be enough to make him forget.