That idea didn’t sit well with Quint, much to his surprise. In that moment, as his fear for Clay’s safety ramped up a notch, he realized that he’d begun to care about the fairly reclusive artist as more than just a possible friend. Even though that’s all he sees me as, I’m sure. If that.
He slammed his fist against the door again—fear, anger, and frustration raging through him.
“You’ll break it down, setting off the alarm,” Clay said from behind Quint, a trace of amusement in his voice.
Quint whirled to look at him. “Where the hell were you? I thought I told you not to leave the loft.”
“I was restless and had to get out of there, so I went up to the patio,” Clay replied defensively. Then he said with more than a touch of anger, “Besides which, you don’t tell me how to live my life.”
“
