HIS
" he snaps and stands up, quickly closing the distance between us. All of his cool nonchalance is gone and now he resembles an angry panther, ready to pounce on its prey.
I take a step back, eyes widening, and suddenly don't recognize the man in front of me. My hand drops to protectively cover my stomach and he doesn't seem to notice. Or, if he does, he pays no attention to the move. Instead, he trails a finger along the edge of the towel, right above my breasts.
"I asked you a question, a ghrá, and I expect an honest answer. No more lies."
The way he says the Irish term of endearment is nasty and sarcastic. It makes my heart hurt.
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