Chapter 51

**G R A C E**

What the hell is he doing? I still don’t know. I stand my ground as he smirks again, taking his time with each breath like he owns the room. Like he owns me. I mean, technically, it *is* his house, his room, but I don’t care. I’m not going to let him get away with this weird, smug act.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I finally ask, my voice sounding braver than I feel. I take a small step forward, not enough to make a difference, but enough to feel like I’m doing *something*—even if it’s just pretending I’m not completely overwhelmed.

He tilts his head, still leaning against the door, that insufferable smirk plastered on his face. “This is my room, remember?” he says, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

I want to slap that grin right off his face. "No, it’s not. Not since you gave it to me. Remember? You insisted, *friend*,” I say, spitting the last word out like it’s poison, reminding him of his own condescending words. My tone is mocking, and I hope it cuts. But it doesn’t.

It only amuses him more. His smirk widens, and my blood boils. I want to walk up to him and slap him, hard enough that he’d never even *think* of smirking again.

“Get out of my room right now, or I’ll leave,” I warn, even though I have no idea where I’d go. Maybe back to Sophia’s, but she’s probably still out, and her place is locked up.

His eyes darken slightly, and his smirk fades as he pushes off the door, stepping toward me. “What makes you think you can get past me?”

I freeze. Is he trying to intimidate me? Scare me? I try to keep my voice steady as I ask, “What do you even want from me?”

His expression changes. There’s something unreadable in his eyes as he slips his hand into his pocket and pulls something out.

“A phone?” I frown, staring at the object in his hand. It’s sleek and new, completely different from the one I smashed up.

“Your *new* phone,” he says, holding it out like it’s some kind of peace offering.

I can’t help but laugh, though it’s more out of disbelief than anything. “Is this your game? Buying me a phone every time you want to talk to me?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. But I don’t show it. I keep glaring at him, refusing to let him see how much this entire situation is messing with my head.

He holds my gaze, his eyes sharp and assessing, before he speaks again. “I thought that’s what you liked—men buying you stuff. Your food, dresses.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I know exactly what he’s insinuating. Matt. He’s taunting me about Matt. But why does he care? What does it matter to him?

“You don’t have to worry about what I like,” I say, my voice lame, even to my own ears. But I have to say something, anything to push back.

He looks away, nodding to himself like he’s working through something in his head. “You seemed to enjoy yourself at the party. Did you like it?”

I narrow my eyes at him. Why does he care? Why is he asking about the party now? He ignored me the whole damn night, yet now he wants to act all interested?

“I’m done with this, Alex. What do you *want*?” I snap, throwing my clutch on the bed, which bounces off and hits the floor. I don’t care.

He steps forward, bending down to pick up the clutch. I can’t help but notice how his muscles flex beneath his shirt as he moves. Damn it. Why am I even looking?

He places the clutch back on the bed gently, and suddenly he’s too close. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, and I’m barely a few steps away.

“I just want to know if your foot is better,” he says, his voice softer than I expect. Too gentle for *him*.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. Now he cares about my foot? He didn’t bother to check on me the entire day, and now he’s acting all concerned? He didn’t even look at me twice at the party.

“Since you care so much about my foot,” I say sarcastically, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

He scoffs, a small laugh escaping him, and it makes my teeth grind. What the hell is so funny?

Truth is, my foot isn’t fine. Far from it. Wearing heels tonight was a stupid mistake. I haven’t even changed the bandage since he patched me up last night, and now my foot feels like it’s on fire. I don’t want him to know that, though. He doesn’t deserve to know anything.

Alex ignores my sarcastic jab and asks, “Do you like dancing so much?”

His question makes me even angrier. “Why don’t you go ask the pretty girl you had on your arm all night? I’m sure she’d love to waltz around with you.”

I shouldn’t have said it. I *hate* that I said it. But I couldn’t help it. I’ve been holding it in all night, and seeing that girl laughing next to him was unbearable. I hated every second of it.

For a second, I think I’ve finally hit a nerve. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stands there in silence. But instead of getting angry, like I expect, he surprises me.

He starts walking around the bed, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing right in front of me.

Shit.