"Mr. Sinclair?" Layla stared, then hurried after him. "I can manage..."
Damian paused. Beneath the supermarket's harsh lights, his profile looked icy. "When can you return my umbrella?"
Layla blinked in surprise. "Which house do you live in?"
Damian gave her the number, then strode away, his back radiating an aloofness that discouraged argument.
His house stood at the deepest end of Silvercrest, only a 5-minute drive from hers.
Layla watched him leave, an indescribable ache rising in her chest. He still looked utterly unapproachable, yet he kept doing things that invited misunderstanding.
She carried the bags out of the market, and damp night air swept against her face.
The conspicuous black Rolls-Royce was still parked at the curb, its engine idling softly as if it had never left.
