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I look up at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” His eyes hold mine. “I want to.”

“I’m fine taking an Uber,” I insist, but that tiny thrill I get whenever he looks at me like that sends my pulse racing. “I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“I’m taking you home, Rose,” he growls. “It’s no bother. As I said, it’s on my way, and I’m not comfortable with you getting into a car with some stranger this late at night.” His tone leaves little room for argument.

I puff out my cheeks and stand. “Fine,” I mutter.

Damn him and that smug, triumphant smile that’s now curving his lips.

The last time Bronson drove me home was the night we met. I remember hoping he’d kiss me goodnight. I also remember floating up to my apartment after he did.

This time, I’m hoping for the complete opposite.

Not because Bronson isn’t a good kisser. His kissing skills are phenomenal. Back then, he was simply my hot blind date, Brendan, the Zumba instructor. Now he’s my boss, and crossing that line would only make things complicated.

As soon as we pull up by the kerb outside my apartment building, I remove my seatbelt and reach down for my bag. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say.

“I’ll walk you to the door.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Bronson arches an eyebrow. “I’m not letting you walk to the door on your own.”

I sigh because I already know any argument I put forward will be fruitless.

We walk side by side without saying a word, the silence between us somehow feeling more intimate than conversation would. We stop when we reach the entrance to my building.

This is deja vu at its finest. “Well, goodnight,” I say.

I take a step towards the keypad mounted on the wall beside the door.

“Wait, Rose.” Before I can turn fully, Bronson wraps his warm fingers around my wrist. His touch sends tingles shooting up my arm, and for a second, I forget what I was about to do.

My eyes lock on his whiskey coloured ones. “If you’re going to ask for a nightcap, the answer is no.”

“I’m not,” he says, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “I’m not even going to ask if I can meet your bird, who clearly has Tourette’s, despite being incredibly intrigued by him.”

“He doesn’t have Tourette’s, just a foul mouth.”

“I’m curious who taught him to swear like that. I presume it wasn’t you.”

“He was like that when we got him.”

“You voluntarily bought a bird who abuses you?”

“We didn’t buy him. My Mum found him in the garden.”

“And despite his bad behaviour, she decided to keep him?”

“She felt sorry for him,” I admit.

A grin tugs one corner of his mouth. “She felt sorry for him?”

“When she was a girl—you know, before the murder—she had a canary named Tweedie.”

“She had a canary named Tweedie?”