Emily had been embarrassed, and now she was miserable. At his penthouse, they were still two creatures from different worlds. But now, they were just so incredibly different that Emily knew he would never want to see her again. Her stomach lurched as the doors opened.
Her expression was bleak when she turned to face him. “Please just go, Sabato.”
He stared down at her, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Their eyes clashed, and something shifted between them. “Which one is yours?”
She closed her eyes against the certainty that he was about to come into her life in a way she’d never expected. She tried to recall the state of the flat when she’d left that afternoon.
“Sabato,” she said quietly, and blinked her eyes open, to stare at him head on.
“Which one?” He repeated firmly.
She turned around and walked slowly down the corridor. As if a delay might weaken his resolve. It didn’t. They reached the door to her apartment and he was still beside her, impossible to fathom, and difficult to ignore.
Emily knew she could refuse to let him in. That she could cause a scene and tell him he had no place in her life. But a large part of her was sparking back to life, after three months of being frozen with despair. And that core of her being was desperate for whatever time she could share with Sabato Montepulciano.
The door pushed inwards easily. She’d oiled the hinges herself a few weeks earlier. She reached around the timber frame for the light and flicked it on. Apprehensively, she shifted into the apartment. Sabato followed, his eyes lancing her as he walked passed. But he did not look at her for long. He turned his focus to her home, scanning the basic but clean kitchen, the simple sofa bed with the depression in its centre, the television set she’d picked up from Argos and walked all the way home. The lamp she’d been given when the French couple next door had moved out.
He finished the slow inspection of the lounge and then looked at her again. His expression was becoming darker by the moment, and Emily’s stomach was in knots. He moved to the doorway that led to Andrew’s room. Emily padded behind him, but not too close. She didn’t want to see his cool rejection for a moment longer than she needed to.
Now he knew. He knew just how far out of his orbit she really was, and he would leave her alone. He might even wish he’d never been with someone like her – someone so broke she could barely make ends meet. Mortification was unfurling in her gut. She couldn’t bear his silence.
She walked quietly back to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. While it boiled to life, she stared straight ahead, at the lemon yellow tiles delineated by off-white grout.
The first clue she had that Sabato was behind her was the sound of the refrigerator opening. She spun around and watched as he crouched down to survey the contents.
“What are you doing?” She said finally, relieved to have remembered she had a voice, and every right to object to his invasion of her personal space.
He stood then, and shut the fridge door with more force than was necessary. His eyes were darkly accusing.
“This is where you live.” Another statement. Yet it seemed to demand an answer.
She tilted her head forward. “As you see.”
“Dio Mio,” he swore loudly, and slammed his palm into the kitchen bench. “This, here? This is where you come to, after you’ve worked so hard all day? This is your haven? Your home?”
His mood was grim, and yet she smiled. “I wouldn’t call it a haven,” she confided honestly. “But it’s home for now.”
His breathing was ragged. He thrust his hands onto his hips and looked at her long and hard. “I want you to pack a bag, and come back to the hotel. With me.”
Emily furrowed her brow in confusion. “Um, no.”
“I think you misunderstood. I’m not asking. Pack a bag. You have just as long as it takes for my driver to arrive.”
Emily’s ears had turned pink. She could feel the heat that was spreading all over her face. Indignant rage, it burned her insides with its flickering wrath. “Who the hell do you think you are?” She spoke quietly, with an undercurrent of fury.
His smile was both cold, and humourless. “I am your boss.”
She shook her head. “Not really.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Emily. If I want you fired, you’re fired. I am just as much your boss as if I worked directly over you.”
She took a step towards him, hoping that it might aid her in understanding him better. “Sabato,” her voice was husky. She shook her head and tried again. “Why would you even say that?”
He closed his eyes and ran a hand over them. “Just… pack a bag.”
Another step towards him; it brought no greater comprehension. “I can’t.” She bit down on her lip, and with her eyes, she begged him to drop this ridiculous proposal.
“Where are your things?”