Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
And it’s true. I love the apartment immediately. The Greco house was huge—it swallowed me whole, made every room feel empty even when it was full of people. Not that I expect to feel less lonely here, but at least it’s smaller, smoother, more contained. The only thing I’ll miss is riding the horses.
Ricci comes around the corner from the kitchen, smiling at me, a real smile that softens the hard edges of his face. “You’ve always lived in houses, haven’t you?”
“Yes. But this is really nice.”
He smiles again, wider this time, and reaches up to loosen his bow tie completely. He pulls it free, the black silk sliding through his fingers, then starts unbuttoning his shirt as he walks back toward the kitchen. I watch him—trying not to stare, failing. The way the crisp white fabric parts to reveal the hard lines of his chest, the shadow of dark hair trailing down the center, the way his shoulders move under the open collar. He moves with that same effortless power he always has, as if space bends around him. I take a seat nervously on one of the high stools at the island, the leather feels cool against the backs of my thighs.
“Drink?” he offers. “A glass of champagne?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He pours two glasses of whiskey from a heavy crystal decanter, then he slides one across the marble to me.
I accept it and take a sip. The whiskey is smooth and cold on my tongue, but my stomach is still tight, knotted with nerves and something else I don’t want to name. My fingers tighten around the glass until my knuckles ache.
“You can start to move your things in here tomorrow, and you’re welcome to make any changes you want to make yourself feel more at home.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, but I’m more than a little surprised at this. This was not an allowance given to me in my previous marriage. I was expected to move in and blend in, not change anything or move anything out of place. His words make the tension in my shoulders ease.
And immediately I start imagining how I could warm the place up. I’ve always loved interior design. Always craved the kind of comfort a real home can bring, the kind I’ve never had. Soft cashmere throws in deep jewel tones draped over the leather. Plush rugs to sink my toes into on cold mornings. Cushions everywhere, beeswax candles that actually burn instead of just sitting there looking expensive. Plants that live and breathe—ferns, orchids, maybe a small lemon tree by the windows. Little touches that would make this apartment stop feeling like a beautiful cage and more like… my home. A place where I could finally exhale.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “What would you like to have for dinner?”
I shake my head, certain I will not be able to keep anything down even if I try. I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. My stomach is a knot of nerves and anticipation and fear and want, all tangled together.
“Well then,” he says, setting his glass down with a soft clink, “since you don’t want to eat…”
At his words I nearly choke on my drink. The liquid burns going down the wrong way, and I cough and splitter, eyes watering, and heat flooding my face in a rush. I set the glass down with a shaky hand, trying to catch my breath while his eyes stay on me, dark and watchful.
The air feels charged, electric, every second ticking by like a countdown, and I can feel the space between us crackling with sexual tension. He’s still standing there in his unbuttoned shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows now, forearms corded with muscle, looking at me like he knows exactly how this night is going to end.
My thighs press together under the island, seeking friction, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. He doesn’t move closer. He just watches me, letting the tension build, letting me feel it settle deep in my bones.
I want what he wants, and that’s what scares me most of all.
Chapter Eighteen
RICCI
Iwatch the way the sharp little cough makes her eyes water and sends a flush racing up her throat like she’s been caught with her hand somewhere forbidden. The sound is small, almost delicate, but it hits me low in the gut anyway.
My fingers slide into the inside pocket of my jacket and close around the white cotton handkerchief that has been pressed against my body since this morning. It is crisp and carries the warmth of my body heat. I hesitate, my thumb tracing the raised letters of the monogram RR—stitched in tight black silk thread by the same tailor. Why does handing this square piece of cotton feel heavier than the contract we signed last night?