I bite back my annoyance and force my expression into impassivity. I don’t want her to see that lash of anger in me at the thought of her dressed in another man’s clothes. Hell, I don’t want myself to see that.
“I suppose it’s better than the alternatives in your closet,” I grit out.
“I like the way I dress,” she says defiantly, lifting her chin.
Her eyes are on fire right now. What would it take to tamp down those flames?
Again, I assess her from head to toe. Paige squirms under my gaze and crosses her arms over her chest. I don’t even have to speak to have conversations with her sometimes.
“Okay,” she says, fidgeting, “well, what I’m wearing right this second isn’t exactly, y’know, nice. This is not a good example.”
“Excuse me? You don’t get to tell me—”
“We’re leaving in ten minu
