Relief mixed with a budding irritation. Why was he being like this?
“I don’t think so,” she stated. “Clearly something’s wrong.”
His mouth turned down. His eyes turned cold. “Nothing is wrong.”
What was wrong with him? Last night had been amazing. Hadn’t it? Anxiety twisted viciously in her belly. She’d done the best she could. She only needed some more practice. However, it appeared from his attitude she wasn’t going to get the chance. Which fired her temper. “I hate it when men say that when obviously something has happened.”
Rather than responding, he merely sipped his liquor once more, watching her with those guarded eyes.
Turning back to the stove, she tried to rein in her frustration and nervousness. Yet it continued to simmer and grow as she stirred her stew. Why didn’t he sweep her into his arms and into bed? Had she been so bad last night it had turned him off completely?
The spoon slapped the ridge of the pot. So what if she wasn’t the perfect lover right out of the box? The man could at least cut her some slack and give her another try. Instead, he was staring at her is if he wanted her to leave the premises.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The stew bubbled over the edge of the pot. Frustration and nerves turned to anger. It wasn’t as if she’d asked to be here. He’d been the one to insist. To blackmail. If he didn’t like it, too bad. All thoughts of creating a nice dinner for him, teaching him how to enjoy life, loving him—every one of those thoughts disappeared. Replaced by another.
She’d like to punch him in the nose.
“Cooking?”
“Yes. Good thing I didn’t decide to make something requiring specific timing. If I had, your dinner would be ruined.”
“I had work.”
“Naturally,” she scoffed. “What else is new?”
His dark brows rose. “Did you think one night in bed with you would change the way I do things?”
“I’m not that stupid.” Her hand tightened around the spoon as if it were a weapon.
“Did you think becoming my lover gave you license to become a happy homemaker?” His voice turned to sarcastic disdain.
Her heart stopped as his words hit with deadly accuracy. But she rallied, her pride demanding a rebuttal to his scorn. “I l-like to cook. I’ve liked it since I was a kid. Sue me.”
A flash of surprise whipped through his eyes, quickly followed by rage. “Your careless parents didn’t have time for cooking, I take it.”
“Don’t talk about my parents.” She glared at her stew and slammed the spoon back into it. “They’re none of your business.”
A tense silence fell.
“That is not entirely true, is it?” he finally replied. “After all, I am footing quite an expensive bill for one of them.”
“Go ahead.” She turned her glare on him. “Throw it in my face.”
He met her fiery words and angry attitude with an enigmatic shrug.
How had this gone so wrong so fast? How had she gone from wanting him to come home with desperate anticipation to wanting to choke him? Rather than soothing him, loving him, seducing him; she was yelling at him.
Exactly like her parents.
The painful realization pinned her to the floor.
She was doing exactly what her mum had done with her pop. Loving him too much. Willing to do anything for him. Then, inevitably, when hurt, when rejected, striking back. Yelling and screaming at him, trying to get him to express a love he didn’t feel. And finally dying for him. Dying at a customer’s drunken hands while her pop had been out buying another fix.
Fighting and loving. Fighting and loving.
Dying. Dying because of that twisted love.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered.
“What?” Marcus straightened, his gaze sharpening. “What is it?”
“N-nothing.” She glared down at the stew once more. Then took in a swift, deep breath.
“Darcy.” His voice was hard and taut.
She slammed the top on the pot and flipped off the stove. Turning, she stared at him. “Never mind. I was being dumb.”
His eyes were alert and focused. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
A harsh laugh escaped her. “I’m thinking I was close to being a fool. But you’ll be happy to know I figured it out before it was too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Irritation sizzled around each word.
Tugging down the tight, red jumper she’d put on a few hours ago, thinking he’d like the way it hugged her body, she walked towards him, past him. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Especially to you.”
One large male hand stopped her before she could escape.
They stood together in the kitchen entryway.