Chapter 35 One Question Too Many

Chapter 35 One Question Too Many

ELIZA’S POV

“If you had found someone like that tonight… would you have gone home with him?”

For a moment, the question hung between us like something fragile and dangerous.

I stared at Vinton.

Really stared at him.

At the hard line of his jaw. At the tension in his shoulders. At the way his hand still held my wrist, firm but not painful, as though he had grabbed me without thinking and now didn’t quite know what to do with the fact that he had.

The alcohol in my system made the moment feel strangely slow.

Like the world had softened around the edges.

And yet every detail about him felt painfully sharp.

“Why do you care?” I asked finally.

My voice came out quieter than before.

His eyes flickered.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a question,” I said.

He didn’t release my wrist.

“Answer mine first.”

I let out a small, incredulous laugh.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

Something flashed across his face.

Not anger this time.

Something darker.

“None of my business,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

I tugged my wrist lightly.

His grip tightened.

Just slightly.

Enough to stop me.

My pulse jumped.

“You live in my house,” he said slowly.

“It’s temporary.”

“You work for me.”

“Also temporary.”

“You disappeared tonight without telling anyone where you were going.”

“I went out.”

“You got drunk.”

“That tends to happen in clubs.”

His jaw flexed again.

“You surrounded yourself with men who were clearly interested in taking you home.”

I tilted my head slightly.

“Jealous?”

The word slipped out before I could stop it.

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Vinton didn’t blink.

For a second I wondered if the tequila had finally broken my brain.

Because surely I had not just asked Vinton Crost if he was jealous.

Then he spoke.

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Too flat.

I hummed thoughtfully.

“Interesting.”

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely starting.”

The alcohol made everything feel bolder than usual.

My brain seemed to have completely abandoned the concept of self-preservation.

“You followed me to a club,” I continued, watching him carefully. “Watched me drink. Watched me dance.”

His expression hardened.

“I made sure you were safe.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a normal thing to do.”

“It is when someone behaves recklessly.”

“Recklessly?” I echoed.

“You had six shots.”

“That’s not reckless.”

“You could barely walk when you came home.”

“I can walk perfectly fine.”

To prove my point, I took a step forward.

The hallway tilted slightly.

I steadied myself against the wall.

Vinton’s eyes narrowed.

“That,” he said dryly, “was extremely convincing.”

I scowled at him.

“Stop looking so smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re absolutely smug.”

He released my wrist then.

For a moment I thought the conversation might finally end.

But instead he stepped closer again.

Too close.

Now the space between us felt almost nonexistent.

His gaze dropped briefly to my face.

Then lower.

My breath caught before I could stop it.

When his eyes returned to mine, they looked darker.

More intense.

“You never answered my question,” he said quietly.

I folded my arms defensively.

“I told you. It’s none of your business.”

His voice dropped even further.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

My stomach twisted again.

“And why exactly is that?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead he studied my face in that careful, assessing way he had.

Like he was trying to read every thought that passed through my mind.

Finally, he spoke.

“Because if you had gone home with someone tonight,” he said slowly, “I would have had a problem with that.”

My eyebrows lifted.

“A problem.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

This one longer.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“That,” he said eventually, “is not something you need to worry about.”

I stared at him.

Then I laughed.

“Oh, that’s rich.”

“What?”

“You get to interrogate me for ten minutes about my personal life,” I said, gesturing vaguely between us, “but when I ask you one question suddenly it’s classified information?”

His expression didn’t change.

“Correct.”

I shook my head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “We’ve established that.”

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then my gaze drifted down the hallway toward the staircase.

My bed suddenly sounded like the greatest idea anyone had ever invented.

“I’m going upstairs,” I announced.

“You should.”

“Yes.”

I turned and started walking.

Or attempting to.

My steps were slightly less graceful than I would have preferred.

I had made it exactly three steps before his voice stopped me again.

“Eliza.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

“What now?”

“Answer the question.”

I turned slowly.

“You’re still on that?”

“Yes.”

I sighed dramatically.

“This is exhausting.”

“Did you plan to go home with someone tonight?”

I studied him for a moment.

At the way his shoulders were tense.

At the intensity in his gaze.

At the fact that he clearly wasn’t going to drop this.

Then I shrugged.

“Maybe.”

The reaction was immediate.

His entire body went still.

“Maybe,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

I tilted my head slightly, watching him.

“Why?” I added sweetly. “Would that bother you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead he walked toward me slowly.

One step.

Then another.

By the time he stopped, he was standing close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes.

His voice, when he spoke, was low.

Controlled.

But underneath it, something simmered.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“It would.”