“It’s not about the color,” Damon said, his eyes scanning my face, searching for the familiar dip in my chin that usually signaled my surrender. “It’s about you thinking you can change just because of a number on a calendar.”
I stepped back, my heel catching lightly on the edge of a concrete planter full of wilting marigolds.
“Are you coming in or not?” I asked.
He looked at the brass door, then back at me, and his face hardened into the expression he got when the monthly bills were higher than he wanted.
“I’ve given you my terms,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his keys and letting them jingle in his hand. “You want to make a spectacle of yourself, do it yourself.”
He returned to the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut with a loud bang that shook the passenger-side window.
