Chapter 517
[ 538 words ]
Chapter 517:
With a frustrated growl, he raked a hand through his messy hair. He turned away, breaking the intense eye contact. “This day is a total disaster,” he muttered under his breath. He bent down and snatched the law textbook from the grass, shoving it carelessly into a worn leather backpack.
He slung the backpack over one shoulder. “Follow me, stupid woman,” he grumbled, not looking at her. He started walking, his long legs eating up the ground at a punishing pace.
Caroline rolled her eyes at his retreating back. The man was infuriating. But he was her only way out of this maze. She hurried to catch up.
He walked with a deliberate, aggressive speed, clearly intending to make her struggle. She had to break into a light jog to keep from being left behind, her breath coming in short, sharp puffs.
As she followed the tall, gray-hoodied figure, she noticed something. The breadth of his shoulders, the way he carried himself with a coiled, athletic grace, it was uncannily familiar. It reminded her so much of Jarrod.
The thought sent a jolt through her. Could this arrogant, foul-mouthed boy actually be a Romero? The idea seemed both absurd and terrifyingly plausible.
𝖶е 𝘂𝘱𝗱a𝘁𝘦 𝗲𝘃e𝗿𝘆 𝘸𝖾e𝗸 o𝘯 𝘨𝗮𝗅ո𝗈v𝘦l𝗌.co𝗆
After a ten-minute forced march through a labyrinthine rose garden, the grand, columned rear entrance of the main house finally came into view.
He stopped abruptly at the edge of the flagstone patio. He jerked his thumb toward the massive oak doors. “There,” he said, his tone that of a man granting a great and undeserved favor. “You’re home.” He turned, ready to disappear back into his own world.
Caroline took a moment to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling. He had been rude, insulting, and utterly insufferable. But he had helped her.
“Thank you for showing me the way,” she said.
Her voice was perfectly level, stripped of all emotion. It was not an apology. It was not an offering of peace. It was a simple, factual statement of gratitude.
The unexpected politeness, the sheer, unruffled composure of it, seemed to throw him off balance. He stopped, his hand on the back of his neck. He half-turned, looking back at her over his shoulder. His expression was no longer just angry; it was confused, intrigued, and something else she couldn’t quite decipher.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then, without another word, he turned and stalked into the house, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him.
Caroline pushed open the heavy door and followed him inside. The cool, conditioned air of the house washed over her, a welcome relief after her brisk walk. The corridor was long and wide, the floor a checkerboard of black and white marble that stretched into the distance.
The young man tossed his backpack onto a long, upholstered bench with a thud of finality, as if shedding an unwanted burden. He was heading toward a silver tray of bottled water when a door at the far end of the hall opened.
Alistair Finch, the General’s chief of staff, emerged, a file in his hand. He was a man in his late forties, with thinning hair, a meticulously tailored suit, and sharp, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was the picture of quiet, efficient power.
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