The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient #2)(31)

Her shaking worsened to the point where she couldn’t move. “S-sorry. I just went—”

He steered her across the grass toward his car. “Let’s go.”

“But I bought food. It fell all over. And the motorcycle. Someone will take it. I’ll bring it back—”

“Stay. Away. From. It,” he bit out.

Once she got into the car, he yanked the seat belt over her and buckled it, giving it a hard tug to make sure it was tight.

She flinched when he slammed the door shut, and after he marched around and threw himself into his seat, she cleared her throat and said, “My handbag. My money. It’s over there, and I need—”

He leapt out of the car and crossed the divide to crouch beside the motorcycle, but instead of unfastening her purse from the rack, he pressed a fist to his forehead and stayed that way for several long moments. Cars sped by. One slowed down and then accelerated off. Another driver cranked his window down and asked if help was needed.

Kh?i shook his head and called out in a terse tone, “No, thank you.” As the car drove away, he reached over, twisted the key out of the motorcycle’s ignition, and pocketed it. Then he got her purse and returned to the car.

The drive back to his place took two minutes. Esme knew because she spent the entire time watching the clock and waiting for him to speak, but he never did. The garage was empty, but he parked on the curb like usual.

She followed him to the front door, unsure what to say or what to do. When he unlocked the door, she went inside and took her shoes off, expecting him to do the same, but he turned around without a word and started walking down the street. To get the motorcycle, she realized.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

No response. He simply continued walking, shoulders square and back straight, looking like an assassin out on his last mission.

She watched until he disappeared around the corner and then eased the door shut and sagged against it. Her heartbeat gradually slowed down, but her face remained hot with an intense mixture of embarrassment and confusion.

She shouldn’t have taken the motorcycle without asking. But he was so easy with the rest of his things she hadn’t thought it was a big deal.

Why was it a big deal? Why did he keep it in the garage without using it? There was enough room in there for both his motorcycle and his car. Why did he park outside?

Why had he been so angry?

No matter what it was, she had to make it up to him, and she could start doing that immediately. She slipped into the garage, grabbed the ladder she’d seen earlier, and carried it out to the front porch. There were so many leaves clogging the gutter she worried it might fall off and hit someone in the head. It also looked bad. After getting the ladder as stable as she could, she climbed up and tossed handfuls of leaves down to the ground. She’d cleared a good portion of the gutter when Kh?i walked the motorcycle up the driveway, returned it to the garage, and strode toward her.

Her plastic bags of groceries hung from his fingers by his side, but he let them plop to the ground as he stalked over and gripped the ladder, looking up at her with a deep frown on his face. “What are you doing?”

She tossed another handful of leaves down. “There are too many leaves in here.”

“Come down,” he said firmly. “It’s not safe.”

“But I’m not done. Wait a little—”

“Now, Esme.” The words came out sharp, louder than she expected, and her foot slipped on the ladder.

She flailed about helplessly for a heart-stopping second but managed to get ahold of the gutter so she didn’t fall. With her face pressed to the grimy metal, she whispered thanks to sky and Buddha. That fall would have broken her butt.

“Please. Come down now,” he said in a hard monotone.

The instant her feet touched the ground, he turned the ladder on its side and carried it back into the garage.

She threw her hands up in the air and followed him. “Why are you doing this? I’m not done.” She still had a lot of gutter left to clean, and she hated leaving a job unfinished. Without thinking, she grabbed his shoulder and said, “Anh Kh?i, put it back—”

He whipped around instantly and wrapped an arm across his chest so he could rub at the shoulder she’d touched. “You have to stop all of this.”

“I’ll finish later, then, but—”

“No, there won’t be any finishing. You. Have. To. Stop. Do you understand? You. Have. To. Stop.”

Her bottom lip trembled at his slow, exaggerated pronunciation. “You don’t need to speak like that. I understand you.”

He made a frustrated sound. “You don’t. You’ve been reorganizing my stuff in ridiculous ways, cutting down trees with a meat cleaver, touching that motorcycle, touching me. It all has to stop. I can’t live this way.”

When his meaning sank in, Esme’s shoulders drooped. “Ridiculous?” she repeated in English. That didn’t sound good.

He clawed both hands through his hair. “Yes.”

She looked at the half-cleared lawn and wiped her dirty hands on her pants as her heart shrank and her face flamed. Ridiculous. If she were classier, she’d know what that meant. Now that she thought about it, it probably wasn’t very classy for her to do yard work or clean his house or any of this stuff. Esme in Accounting probably hired people to do this work. But the real Esme, the country girl M? who always smelled like fish sauce, just wanted to be useful. She hadn’t thought about how it looked.