Page 27 of A Dark Fall

“I guess I’ll head off now then. I had a great time, Alex.” His voice is sincere and hopeful, and not for the first time tonight, I feel as though maybe thiscouldgo somewhere.

“Me too, Sam. We should do it again sometime.” The words are out before I can stop them, but I don’t care, and I don’t think it was drunk talk. I like him, he’s nice, and we have far too much in common to cast it aside, surely?

Sam’s face lights up. “I’d really like that. Okay, so, see you Monday,” he says, backing away from me toward his car.

“Night.”

I stand there for a moment and watch him reverse out, waving a small goodbye before reaching into my bag to get my keys out. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and retrieve my phone from my bag to check for a text I know isn’t going to be there. It’s off, having died during the evening. The battery really must be going on it. I need to admit defeat and upgrade the bloody thing. I take it through to the kitchen and plug it in to charge.

I put some dinner out for Fred and fill the kettle for some tea.As soon as I flick the switch on the kettle, the doorbell goes. Sam must have forgotten something. Though, I can’t imagine what since he was only in here five minutes. Maybe he got the sudden urge to sweep me upstairs to bed and make crazy, passionate love to me. The idea makes me giggle for some reason. Sam is definitely not the type.

I walk through the hall and quickly unlock the door, expecting to see an apologetic Sam. For the second time that week, I feel the breath leave my body, my legs threatening to give out.

Jake is standing at my front door looking completely, mind-bendingly gorgeous ... and completely furious.

He’s glaring at me, nostrils slightly flared, mouth in a hard, angry line, and his body practically trembling with rage.

I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot, open-mouthed. In my shock, I still register he looks completely edible in jeans and a casual red-and-white-checked shirt. The skin of his throat is stubbled and slightly golden, and it makes my mouth water. His hair is mussed as though he’s been dragging his hand through it.

As we stand looking at each other, I decide anger looks extremely sexy on him. Okay, even in my head I know how wrong that sounds, but there’s something about his body tensed and on edge that makes him look even more delicious than normal. It was the same at the club when he was facing off with Matt. His ferocity has a sensuality to it. God, what the hell is wrong with me? Ferociously sensual? Sexy anger? Also, his anger is directed at me. I caused it.

“So, he’s what came up, is he?” he hisses, finally cutting through the charged silence.

I blink, opening my mouth to tell him something, anything, to explain it wasn’t really like that, but I don’t get the chance.

“Are you fucking him?”

I flinch, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“Are you fucking him?” he repeats. Okay, so, apparently, my ears heard him perfectly fine the first time.

I frown, cheeks hot. “Is that any of your business?”

“Since you agreed to go out with me, yeah, it is.”

I’m not entirely sure I agree with that. Having dinner with someone doesn’t give them the right to know who you’re sleeping with.Does it?I haven’t done the whole dating thing for a while, but I’m certain it hasn’t changed that much.

Because he’s close and rather intimidating, I take a small step back, into the hallway. Jake reads it as an invitation though and follows, stepping inside the door and into the vestibule. Okay, maybe now I should be afraid. He’s in my house. Jake Lawrence is in my house. It’s not frightening though; it’s only surreal. Again.

“Well, are you?”

What possesses me to answer him I don’t know. “No. I’m not fucking him,” I reply quietly. The word sounds vulgar and ill-fitting in my mouth. Unlike how it sounded from his: raw and coarse and entirely natural.

He says nothing at the admission, registers no emotion at all. He just continues to stare at me hard. It occurs to me he might be trying to decide whether I’m telling the truth.

Uncomfortable, I turn on my heel and head toward the living room.

“Don’t walk away from me, Alex,” he says quietly this time. It’s the kind of tone you use on a misbehaving child. I feel him following me, his presence like a force field near my own.

Pacing over to the window, I turn to face him, folding my arms across my chest. I almost gasp at the sight of him there by the fireplace in the room where I read, where I stroke Fred, where my Mum and Dad drink tea when they come over. “Surreal” doesn’t seem to do it justice suddenly.

“Why are you here, Jake? Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be turning up at people’s houses?” I glance at my watch—it’s midnight—and then back up to his eyes.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says, gaze dark and challenging.

I narrow my eyes, trying hard to ignore the dull throb thrumming between my legs at the sight of him here, looking like that, when I feel like this. Christ, I need him to go. I really don’t trust myself around him.

“Well, you should go,” I state. It sounds half-hearted though, and he must think so too, because he smirks.