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“Unlock the door and let me in, baby,” he orders, then he rounds the hood and goes to the passenger door and pulls on the door handle. It resists as I’ve already locked it.
I take this opportunity to put it into reverse and back out.
He’s staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face as I swing out of there.
I’m practically vibrating with anger as I take the short, four-minute trip home.
When I pull into my driveway, I see Adam has already gone, which isn’t surprising; he told me he’s going out to meet some friends at a sports bar for wings and to watch a game. He’s pretty stoked about his new wheels and newfound independence after selling his car six months ago to Lawrence, our old neighbor.
I’m still shaky as I unload the groceries.
“Chloe,” I hear and startled, I drop a bag, sending vegetables and fruit tumbling onto the driveway.
Derek squats and begins picking things up. His SUV is parked directly behind mine, still running.
“You can’t be here,” I whisper-hiss.
“You didn’t give me a choice,” he says, filling my reusable grocery bag with the food. “That wasn’t very nice, little bunny.”
He flashes a little grin and eyes me from head to toes. I’m in jeans and a light sweater. Nothing fancy. I don’t even have make-up on. But he’s looking at me like I’m dressed for a night out or something.
I don’t return the smile. “This isn’t funny.”
“I wanna talk,” he says.
“I don’t,” I return.
He scratches his jaw thoughtfully as I pull the other bags out of the trunk, move aside and hit the button to shut the hatch.
“I’ll rephrase then. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
“No way can you come into this house. Are you crazy?” I huff, then add, “I have nothing to say to you.”
“But, I have things to say to you.”
“I don’t need to hear what you have to say.”
“You do,” he counters. “Am I helping you bring these in so we can talk? Or would you rather meet me at my place?”
“Neither,” I snap.
He leans forward. “Refusing me is not wise.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Chloe, I want to talk,” he says searching my face.
“Go fuck yourself,” I snap and storm toward the house with grocery bags dangling from each hand.
He halts me by catching my wrist. “Chloe,” he warns.
His grip isn’t painful, but it is tight.
Our eyes meet.
“My fiancé is in there,” I hiss.
“He’s not,” he corrects. “He’ll be out until at least midnight. That gives us five and a half hours.”
