Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“That’s a shame,” Rowan says, maybe the wine giving her a little liquid courage. “I think I’d like to meet the Z who is not on the clock.”
I give her a smile, pushing all thoughts of stripping her bare and fucking her right where she sits out of my mind. “But I am on the clock.”
She stands up and closes the distance between us. She still has the blanket wrapped around her, and she’s close enough that she has to look up at me with her crystal blue eyes peering up from beneath her heavy lashes. “You could always take a smoke break. Every job allows a break.”
Momentary insanity sets in, and I place my hand at the back of her head and pull her closer to me. My lips brush hers, and even though I want to dive into the kiss fully, I force myself to take a step back. I can’t let this go any further. I can’t. There’s a job to be done. I’m a goddamn professional. And no matter how much I want to taste this woman… fucking consume this woman… I can’t.
Chapter Nine
ROWAN
Z is hiding in the kitchen. I hear him in there rummaging around, trying to look busy, but I suspect what he’s really doing is putting distance between us. I know he felt the same zing of connection that I’d felt as we chatted next to the fire. So many things I’ve learned about him have surprised me—especially his openness in sharing things I suspect he doesn’t share with many people.
Instead of satisfying my curiosity, our conversation and chaste kiss only wet my whistle for so much more. He’s a complex man—full of secrets. Little does he know, I love putting puzzles together.
The September evening breeze is chilly coming off the ocean. I’m grateful for the blanket around me as I take a deep breath of salty air. Childhood memories of summers on this beach remind me of just how much I have to lose if this whole mafia business doesn’t turn out as Z promises. I may not be super close with my parents, but the thought of never seeing them again makes me sad.
It would be so easy to let myself spin into a panic attack, worrying about just how many horrific things could go wrong. As much as I’ve enjoyed being in the spotlight much of my life, the thought of my demise at the hands of the mafia being the lead story on the eleven o’clock news turns my stomach.
I take my last gulp of wine and head inside. It’s silly—I know it is—but just being near Z helps tamp down my fear of the future. I think it’s because I believe him when he tells me he isn’t going to let anything bad happen to me.
Taking a seat on one of the kitchen island bar stools, I watch him in silence for a full minute before speaking. “I’m surprised you cook.”
He doesn’t look up, but answers. “Hold your appreciation until we’ve eaten. It’s nothing fancy. I just grabbed a few staples they had stocked on the pantry’s shelves.”
“Well, it still smells good,” I say truthfully.
“I hope you don’t have any food allergies. My options are limited.”
I wait for him to glance up before I answer him. “No allergies, and while I may vlog about fancy restaurants in the city, my favorite meals are usually at the hole-in-the-wall places only locals know about. The food is always better.”
I don’t know why it feels important, but I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of New York princess who has to be waited on hand and foot. In fact, the thought has me getting out of my seat and going around to his side of the island.
“How can I help?” I ask.
“You seem to know your way around the kitchen. Find us some plates and silverware.”
It’s an easy enough task, so I try to bring back the connection we’d had outside before I’d spooked him while we work together on the meal.
“So, tell me… what does Z stand for?”
“Nothing.”
I chuckle. “Very funny. Your parents named you a letter?”
“My father did, yes.”
Interesting.
“But surely it is short for something. Zachary?” I guess.
He looks up with a grin. “Nope.”
“I’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Doubtful. Grab yourself something to drink. I’m switching to water.”
When he doesn’t ask me anything, I go in for another question. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. Not unless you count Dex and Katja.”
I’d seen the picture of the three of them together as children, otherwise I might not believe him. He just seems so different from them.
“What was Katja like as a kid?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Pretty much just like she is now. She’s The Whitney royalty, and she’s always known it.”
“And Dex?” I don’t know him nearly as well.