forward and assesses the cushions that are strewn haphazardly all over my couch.
‘Yes.’ I avoid rolling my eyes for fear of being caught and reprimanded. He’s on a mission, yet what that mission could be is yet to be established. He should know the pillows were all over the place. He was sprawled on them this morning.
‘Did you leave the lemonade on the worktop?’
I glance over to my kitchen area and see many things littering the work surface. Is he going to ask about each and every item? ‘Yes.’
‘Was your bed made this morning?’
I purse my lips and note my messy bedcovers. He was in that bed last night. Does he even remember? ‘No.’
‘Was the bathroom door open?’
‘Yes.’ I sigh my answer this time, wandering further into my apartment and throwing my bag on to the couch.
He’s standing in the centre of my space, looking around, pointing out random things. ‘Was the rug all bitty?’
My patience evaporates. He was here this morning. He’s seen it all. ‘So I need to vacuum.’
He huffs his agreement and strolls over to my window. ‘Was this picture on the floor?’ I watch him pick up a framed photograph of me and my mum and put it in its rightful place. On the windowsill.
‘No.’ I frown to myself, searching my mind for any clue that will lead me to the reason why it would be on my apartment floor.
Becker pulls the blind up abruptly and looks outside into the darkness. ‘Didn’t think so,’ he murmurs quietly.
I look back to my front door. ‘Did you close the door?’ I ask, but I know I heard it slam as he stalked after me this morning.
‘Yes, I closed the door.’ His hand reaches for something on the windowsill, and he turns around, playing with it as he stares down. I have to step forward to fathom what it is. My eyes widen when I realise. ‘The window lock?’
‘Correct,’ he mutters as he strides across my flat to the bathroom. I don’t move. I’ve been frightened into silence and immobility. Someone has been in here?
‘Is anything missing?’ he calls, and I immediately scan the space, looking. Not that I have much to take, apart from my laptop.
Which is currently on my bed. ‘No,’ I say quietly, frowning.
‘We probably disturbed them.’ Becker marches out of my bathroom with arms full of various bottles and cosmetics. ‘You’re staying with me.’ He dumps them on the bed. ‘Get a bag.’
His order and follow-up demand soon yanks me from my stomach-knotting worry, catapulting me into panic. ‘I can’t stay with you.’ That’s a bad idea. Stupid.
‘It wasn’t a question, princess.’ He’s back to that irritating, inconsiderate arsehole-like behaviour. I want to object further, but as I gaze around my tiny apartment, I realise something very quickly. I don’t want to stay here. I feel vulnerable and exposed. ‘I’ll go to Lucy’s,’ I suggest. ‘She won’t mind.’
‘You’re staying with me.’ He gives me an expression that dares me to argue further. ‘Bag.’
I shake my head in silent refusal, making him fall deeply into thought. After everything that was said downstairs, that’s a bad, bad plan. ‘Not a good idea, Becker.’ I didn’t need to follow up my head shake with that statement. He knows.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not rehashing everything. You know why.’ I turn and drag my bag from under my bed. ‘I’ll stay with Lucy.’
‘Well, maybe I do want to rehash everything.’
I look at the ceiling. I really don’t have the energy to go over it again. Or even the willpower to maintain my resistance. Maybe he suspects that. Or senses it. My lungs are shrinking by the second, the air slowly draining until I’m holding my breath. There’s something tugging at my whole body, an invisible connection from him to me, making me quiver as I prevent it from drawing me closer to him. ‘I’m staying with, Lucy,’ I repeat, facing him.
He steps forwards. ‘I want you to stay with me.’
Our eyes hold like magnets, never faltering. ‘Give me one good reason, Becker. Just one.’
He moves closer. ‘Because if I don’t win this battle, Eleanor, I’ll feel like I’ve thrown away the chance of something fucking incredible.’ Another step. My heart quickens. ‘Is that a good enough reason for you?’ I swallow. He’s within touching distance now. Smelling distance. Every sense I possess goes into overdrive. ‘Please, Eleanor,’ he whispers, reaching up slowly and sliding his palm on to the side of my neck. He trails his thumb lightly up and down my throat,