Chapter 40 The Step Too Close
Chapter 40 The Step Too Close
ELIZA’S POV
“You’re the one who keeps stepping over it.”
The words settled heavily in the air between us.
For a moment I simply stared at him, unsure whether I should be offended, irritated, or embarrassed.
Probably all three.
“That’s a bold accusation,” I said finally.
His expression didn’t change.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
I folded my arms across my chest.
“You’re the one who followed me to a club.”
“To make sure you were safe.”
“You keep repeating that like it’s supposed to sound normal.”
“It is normal.”
“It’s not.”
Silence stretched between us again.
Then he said quietly,
“You’re avoiding the point.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
“You are.”
I let out a short breath.
“Fine. What point am I supposedly avoiding now?”
His dark eyes stayed fixed on mine.
“The fact that you keep returning to the same question.”
My brows pulled together.
“What question?”
“Whether I care.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
My chest tightened slightly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes it is.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I shook my head quickly.
“You’re twisting things.”
“I’m clarifying them.”
“By rewriting the conversation?”
“By removing the parts you’re pretending not to understand.”
My jaw clenched.
God, he was good at this.
Too good.
“You’re very confident,” I muttered.
“I try to be.”
“You sound like someone who already knows the answer.”
His voice dropped slightly.
“I do.”
My stomach flipped.
“And what answer is that?”
“That you wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t care about the result.”
I scoffed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
He watched me closely again.
Like he was measuring every tiny reaction I made.
“You’ve asked the same question three different ways,” he continued calmly.
“First in the hallway last night.”
I didn’t respond.
“Then again just now.”
Still nothing.
“And now,” he finished quietly, “you’re trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter.”
I forced out a laugh.
“You give yourself way too much credit.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“You think this conversation is about my ego.”
“I think it’s about your imagination.”
“Interesting.”
“It is.”
But even as I said it, I could feel the conversation slipping somewhere dangerous again.
Somewhere neither of us had intended it to go.
Or maybe he had.
I wasn’t sure anymore.
I picked up my coffee again just to have something to do with my hands.
“You know what I think?” I said.
“What?”
“I think you enjoy psychological games.”
His eyebrow lifted faintly.
“That’s quite an accusation.”
“It’s an observation.”
“You’ve known me for how long?”
“Long enough.”
“Apparently not.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Oh please.”
“No,” he said calmly. “Please continue.”
“Continue what?”
“Your analysis of my personality.”
My lips pressed together.
“You’re mocking me.”
“Not at all.”
“Yes you are.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re gripping that coffee mug like it insulted you.”
I glanced down.
My fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle.
I loosened them immediately.
“That means nothing.”
“It means you’re tense.”
“I’m hungover.”
“That too.”
My headache pulsed again as if to emphasize the point.
I sighed and rubbed my temples.
“This conversation is ridiculous.”
“Then end it.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You’re failing.”
I dropped my hand and looked at him again.
“You know what the real problem is?”
“What?”
“You don’t know when to stop.”
His voice stayed calm.
“I stopped answering ten minutes ago.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“You’re still answering.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He considered that for a moment.
“Perhaps.”
“See?”
“But you’re still asking.”
I groaned quietly.
“You’re exhausting.”
“So you’ve said.”
“And yet you’re still standing here.”
“That seems to bother you.”
“It does.”
“Why?”
Because he was too close.
Because the air felt thick.
Because every time he looked at me like that it made my brain forget simple things like personal space.
But I wasn’t about to say any of that.
“You’re blocking the coffee,” I said instead.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the counter behind him.
Then back to me.
“There’s another pot on the other side.”
“I like this one.”
“Of course you do.”
“Move.”
He didn’t.
Instead he crossed his arms slightly.
“Say please.”
I stared at him.
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all.”
“You want me to say please?”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“That’s not please.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Perhaps.”
“Vinton.”
“Yes, Eliza.”
“Move.”
He considered that request for a moment.
Then he stepped aside.
Slowly.
But instead of moving away completely, he ended up standing even closer.
Close enough that my shoulder almost brushed his chest when I stepped forward.
My breath caught slightly.
Damn it.
I focused very carefully on pouring more coffee.
On the sound of the liquid filling the mug.
On literally anything except the fact that he was standing right beside me.
“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” he said.
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“You look like you’re planning an escape.”
“Maybe I am.”
“From the kitchen?”
“From this conversation.”
His voice softened slightly.
“And yet you’re still here.”
I took a sip.
Then another.
Then I said quietly,
“Maybe I’m curious.”
His gaze shifted slightly toward me.
“I know.”
I set the mug down again.
“About something.”
“Yes.”
I hesitated.
Then asked the one question I had been trying very hard not to ask.
“Why me?”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Silence followed instantly.
Thick.
Heavy.
And very different from the earlier tension.
Now the atmosphere felt… serious.
Vinton didn’t answer immediately.
Instead he studied my face like he was searching for something.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.
“You assume there’s a reason.”
“There is.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I shrugged slightly.
“Men like you don’t get jealous over nothing.”
His eyes held mine.
“And what exactly is a man like me?”
I hesitated.
Because that question had more layers than I wanted to deal with.
“Controlled,” I said finally.
“Careful.”
“Difficult.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“Only difficult?”
“Mostly difficult.”
“And yet,” he said quietly, “you’re still asking.”
“Yes.”
Another pause passed.
Then he stepped slightly closer.
Not aggressively.
Not threateningly.
Just enough to make my pulse jump again.
When he spoke, his voice was low.
“You want to know why you?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
His gaze didn’t leave mine.
“That’s a dangerous question, Eliza.”
“Why?”
“Because once I answer it,” he said softly, “we won’t be able to pretend this conversation means nothing.”