Sweetheart?
I sway toward him, hugging my waist tighter, like I’ve been yanked by an invisible string, but I don’t get this. I don’t get any of this.
I don’t like people. Period. And I definitely don’t like being around strange men. They’re harsh and unpredictable. Untrustworthy and crude.
“I am relaxed,” I rasp.
Lincoln’s mouth quirks up on one side. His gray eyes say: liar.
“Please give me a full month’s notice,” I say then, snippy as hell, because it’s that or melt into a muddle of confused, sad goo on the floor. It takes effort, but I turn on my heel and march out of the living room, because hey, it’s a tiny apartment. He doesn’t really need a tour.
No, Lincoln doesn’t need anything from me, and he’ll be gone soon anyway, stranger or not.
Damn it.