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The woman cowers again, leaving me to wonder what Chance did as he stormed through the house. I imagine it was bit like a bear with a thorn in his paw; yelling and threatening as he barrelled through everyone.
But he doesn’t scare me. I’ve had to deal with my fair share of people like Chance working in law. Hell, I’ve dealt with much worse. I know I need to prepare myself for his wrath, knowing it’s highly unlikely he’s cooled off during his few minutes alone.
I slip off my heels and dangle them off my finger by the straps as I stroll down the hallway, remembering the way from when I walked through it the other night.
The farther away from the kitchen I get, the more I notice the rest of the house is eerily quiet. I’m left with just the echoes of the kitchen staff working, and the faint laughs and voices from the people outside ring around me.
The only guide I have to find where Chance went is a soft light coming from under a doorway ahead of me. Taking a deep breath, I grab the knob and turn, sneaking through the door and closing it behind me as quietly as I can.
“Get out,” Chance grumbles, not looking up from the tumbler in his hand.
I drop my shoes by the door and walk carefully toward him. The room is darkened, except for a lamp on his large wooden desk. I don’t take my eyes off him, but in my periphery, I notice floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with old looking books. I would give anything to know what types of books fill Chance Declan’s shelves, but that’s a temptation I can’t give into right now.
There’s a bigger one ahead of me, and I need to make sure I don’t get too close and get burned.
Chance sits in an oversized leather seat, his suit jacket discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone. He’s rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, making him look every inch the successful billionaire he is.
And hot. So damn hot.
“How’s your chin?” I ask, taking another soft step forward.
He grunts, taking a sip of the amber liquid in his glass, never taking his eyes off me.
I feel like I’m prey being watched by a predator.
I’m probably not that far off.
“He’s an ass, you know.” I stop in the middle of the room, assessing him.
He scoffs as he takes another sip. He finally breaks his gaze, looking down at the glass in front of him.
“Wyatt got rid of him. Might even have a black eye or two the way they were going.”
“Good. He deserves it.” His voice is low and gruff. It reminds me of the smoky, gravelly drink he has in his hand. Like a burn that is so smooth it both hurts and feels good at the same time.
“Do you want to talk about what happened back there?” I take a tentative step toward his desk; my eyes remaining focused on him. He continues to avoid mine.
“Do you think I want to talk about it, Dakota?” He slams the tumbler down, making drops of whiskey cascade on the desk around it. “If you’re looking for a guy that will talk about his feelings, you’re in the wrong place.”
“And if you think you’re going to scare me off with being an asshole, you’re wrong.”
“You should be scared,” he seethes, meeting my eyes again. “Everyone else is. The playboy billionaire with anger issues. Chance Declan, the man failing at filling his father’s shoes. The asshole farmer who’s about to lose the town’s rodeo.”
“Is that what you think you are?” I stand still, not daring to take another step further.
The office is cool, but a lone bead of sweat drips down my back. I don’t know if it’s his intense stare or what he does to me.
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” He lifts his glass and takes another sip. “It never does.”
“You’re none of those things, Chance.”
“You don’t know that! You don’t know me!” He stands, slamming his hand against his desk.
“Because you won’t let me fucking try!”
We stand staring at each other, chests heaving as our anger rises. I wish I could shake sense into him, let him see that he isn’t the asshole people believe he is.
Well, he is, but for different reasons.
