Walk Through Fire (Page 34)

This was because the motion sensor light outside had lit and there was an unmistakable man’s body silhouetted through the sheer.

I didn’t stop moving toward the door, however, because I could not believe this.

It was past ten o’clock on a Monday night and he’d been a total asshole to me the last two times he’d seen me in a way I couldn’t decide which time was worse since they both were the worst.

And here he was.

Logan.

Standing at my front door!

No, I absolutely did not stop moving.

I was too angry for that.

I went right to the door, unlocked it, and hauled it open.

I instantly looked up at him and demanded, “Are you serious?”

“Your door is a fuckin’ window,” he replied in an irate growl.

I blinked, my anger tamped down with confusion at his unexpected words.

“What?” I asked.

“Your door is a goddamned window,” he bit off.

“So?” I asked.

His head tipped to the side in an intimidating way. “So?”

“Yeah,” I snapped, back to angry, thus totally unintimidated. “So?”

“You know how easy it is to break into a house with a window in the goddamned front door?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “But I’m certain you do,” I finished nastily.

“Yeah,” he clipped, leaning slightly toward me. “I do. It’s fuckin’ easy, which means this shit,” he threw a hand toward my open door, “is unsafe.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve shown up at my home after ten at night when you said you never wanted to see me again to tell me my front door is unsafe?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” he stated. “I came for another reason.”

Before I could ask what that was, he turned, bent, I got a view of his ass in his jeans I did not want because it was too good for words, then he straightened, hefting something up and turning back to me.

Dear Lord in heaven, he had that stupid crate.

Those crazy women who came to visit me gave him that stupid crate.

Damn it!

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said on an annoyed snap.

“Nope,” High replied, and pushed in, right in, doing it so I had no choice but to leap out of his way as he angled sideways to get him and the crate through the front door. And then, when he was through, he kept on walking.

“I did not ask you into my home,” I called after him as he stopped at the hall, looked right, looked left, then turned left, toward the living room.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he replied as he disappeared.

I made a frustrated noise, closed the door, and stomped after him.

By the time I hit the living room, he was standing in it, box at his feet and he was looking around.

I rounded him angrily, opening my mouth to tell him to get the fuck out, when his eyes cut to me and he spoke.

“Christ, you live on a movie set,” he noted with disgust.

“It’s pretty,” I snapped.

“It’s perfect,” he returned, like that was a bad thing.

“Yes, it is, utterly,” I agreed. “Now—”

“And what’s that smell?” He looked around and sniffed and I got even more annoyed because only Logan could sniff and do it looking manly and yummy. “It smells like flowers and onions.”

“Not onions,” I kept snapping. “Shallots,” I stated like any fool could tell the difference and his eyes came back to me. “And the flower smell is coming from my candles. Lavender. It’s soothing.”

“It’s sickening,” he replied.

“It… is… not,” I shot back indignantly.

“It fucking is,” he retorted.

“God!” I shouted, throwing out my hands. “Why are we talking about how my house smells?” I narrowed my eyes and swiftly kept speaking so he wouldn’t answer since I didn’t care about his answer. I cared about another answer. So I asked that question. “And why are you here?”

“Here to return this shit.” He toed the box with his boot but didn’t take his eyes off me. “And to warn you again to stop pullin’ this shit.”

“Then I’ll say again I’m not pulling any shit,” I declared.

“And I’ll repeat, I don’t believe you,” he stated.

“And I’ll repeat, I don’t care,” I returned.

He took a step toward me and I took a step back, eyes locked to his.

He hesitated, his head again tilting in that strangely intimidating way, then he kept coming at me.

I kept retreating.

He started speaking as we moved.

“It was a good play, usin’ that crate. What’s inside guaranteeing good women will go all out to have your back. But it’s still a play. You know it. I know it.”

I hit wall.

He invaded my space, tipping his chin way down to keep my gaze.

And he kept talking, lower, rougher, and his tone was more intimidating than any head tilt.

“You need to release Tyra before your shit causes Club shit, which you know, Millie, will be seriously uncool.”

“And, again, High, I am not playing some game where I pulled Tyra or her friends in to help me do anything,” I told him. “So you can repeat that until the cows come home but I can’t control her. Hell, I don’t even know her.”

“You knew her enough to give her that box.”

“She came here,” I shared. “I did not ask her. I barely spoke to her. I asked her to get rid of that crate. Not give it to you.”