Page 57 of Sweet Ruin

“I’d argue tomorrow, too,” I tell him. “I’m consistent like that.”

The corner of his mouth ticks upward.

We cross Fourth Avenue. My shop is up that way, twelve blocks north, dark and locked with four trays of unsold gingerbread in the case. I wonder how much he knows about it.

“I could go home,” I say. “And we could forget about all of this. I’ll just turn around, get in my car, drive to my house, get in my own bed, and you’ll never see me again.”

“The bed your sister used?” he asks.

I cringe. “Okay, cheap shot.”

“It’s still yours, no matter what she’s done. If you want, go sleep in it.”

I eye him suspiciously. “You’re not going to stop me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t do it,” he says.

Oh, goddamn him.

For being an asshole.

And also for being right.

I stop walking. Dead stop, right in the middle of the sidewalk, hands in the sleeves of his coat.

He takes two more steps, notices, and turns around. He tucks his hands in his pockets and slouches against the lamppost, long and lean. He shows zero sign of being cold.

“Now what?” he asks in exasperation.

“I’m resisting you,” I explain.

“Pardon?”

“Something’s supposed to happen. You said you’re taking me as repayment. So, ipso facto, this is the part where you put a bag over my head and hogtie me and throw me in a car.”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“I think it’s what you’d like!”

“It’s too cold for this, sladkaya,” he says impatiently. “Walk or don’t walk. I don’t care either way.”

He starts to push back to his feet, but I stop him. “What if I called the police?”

He pulls out his phone and offers it to me on his open palm. It’s unlocked. The screen light comes up under his jaw and I can see he doesn’t care even a little bit.

“Be my guest.”

I don’t take it. “That’s very theatrical of you. Has anyone ever told you that you have a flair for the dramatic?”

Shrugging, he tucks it out of sight again. “Let me know if you change your mind. But I’m going to start walking again now. If you don’t want to get mugged, I suggest you follow.”

With that, he resumes his stride. This time, he’s not quite as nice about matching my speed. But I’m kind of grateful for it, because between the coat and the brisk pace, I’m starting to feel a little bit warmer.

On the inside, though, my suspicions are at a ten out of ten. Four times now, I’ve challenged him, and four times now, he’s yielded instantly, without argument.