“Still mad at me, sweetheart?”
“Of course I am. I’m always mad at you. Extra mad today.”
“Look at me.”
I shook my head.
“Gina. Look at me.”
My traitorous eyes looked up at his sharp demand. He reached across the table and took my hand. His fingers were rough and warm, and tried as I might to focus on the feeling of them threading through mine, his gaze held me captive.
“Are you still mad about what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And hurt?”
“I’m not—” I paused at the tightening of his jaw. “Yes. Okay, yes. It hurt.”
He flipped our hands over and rubbed lazy circles on the inside o
