If he'd really wanted to help, he would've come in with her when she got out of the car. The fact that he'd waited this long meant his mother must have chewed him out again.
She had no use for his reluctant charity. "I can handle this myself."
Her refusal made Miles's brow furrow deeply.
"This is company business. You don't get to throw a tantrum."
A tantrum?
In his eyes, she was either scheming or throwing tantrums—just some conniving woman who couldn't separate work from personal feelings, right?
Molly didn't bother explaining. She turned to leave.
Miles grabbed her wrist, displeasure written all over his face. "What kind of attitude is that?"
His grip hurt. She tried to pull free, but he only tightened his hold, his gaze cutting into her like a blade.
She let out a dry laugh. "Attitude? This is exactly how you've treated me for three years. I do it once, and Mr. Vance can't take it?"
Miles went still for a moment.
Molly wrenched her wrist from his grasp and shook it out—a red ring already forming on her skin—before walking into the office.
Miles's expression turned dark. He'd never imagined the wife who always hovered around him would bite back so sharply.
It left a sour knot in his chest.