In love? That’s a bold assumption to make. And yet, the fact that it’s all I can think about forty-eight hours later makes it seem less bold.
“You can tell Don Solovev to go f**k himself.” I try to infuse as much strength into my voice as possible.
The man’s expression doesn’t change, but he does take a step forward, crossing the threshold and coming to stand with his boots on the pristine cream-colored carpet. It feels like a violation.
“Get out of my room.”
“This is not your room. This is Don Leo’s house. Which means this is Don Leo’s room.”
“I don’t give a s**t. I’m staying here now, which makes it mine. You can’t force me out of here.”
“This will be much easier if you comply.”
Comply—what a pleasant sounding word for an ugly act of submission. That’s what he actually wants, righ
