Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
It’s not fun.
Minutes turn to hours.
I’m safe. I know I’m safe. Angelo’s in the other room, probably dreaming about robbing banks or doing drugs or stealing from old ladies or whatever mobsters like to dream about, and here I am wrapped in luxurious sheets listening to the soft drone of the hotel air conditioning and can’t manage to close my eyes for longer than a minute because I’m terrified.
The sickest part of this whole thing is I keep thinking about what my parents would say. My mother, drunk, would grin at me over the edge of a martini glass and cluck her tongue and say something like, I told you, sweetie, you should’ve married rich like I did and stayed far away from this mess, or my father, he would stand there scowling and eventually shove a broom and a dustpan into my hands and say, well, are you going to fix it or are you going to cry all night, and no matter how hard I work to get away from them I still have my parents in my head. Chastising, telling me I’m not good enough.
I can’t take it anymore.
Around two in the morning, I get up and pace back and forth. Maybe I just won’t sleep, but if I don’t sleep, I’ll be a mess tomorrow and I can’t afford to be a mess right now. I need to be able to think if I’m going to solve this case. The longer it takes, the longer Nicolas sits in jail, and the thought of leaving him in there with whoever gave him that black eye is really bothering me.
I want to rip my hair out until I hear something in the other room.
It’s a soft sound. I barely catch it. But it’s the sound of someone moving around.
Angelo’s still awake.
My stomach does a flip. The memory of his kiss comes back like lightning in my core. No matter how hard I try, I keep coming back to that night—probably because it left me with more than a bruise on my ass where he spanked me. I put a hand to my belly and tighten my jaw.
I’m doing this for my baby. Not his baby, but my baby. All this danger, all this stress, if it means I can move ahead at the firm and give my baby a better life then it’ll all have been worth it. But if I’m going to get there at all, I need to survive.
I yank the door open and step out into the living room.
Angelo looks surprised. He’s sitting on the couch shirtless wearing only a pair of long, black joggers. Tattoos are etched into his chest, a tiger over his heart, flowers along his collarbone, and more spiraling down and disappearing into his waistband. I stare at him and he stares back, and the TV light flickers, making him both ghostly and beautiful. I glance over—he’s watching a black and white Western.
“I didn’t know you were into old movies,” I say stupidly like that somehow explains why I’m standing here looking at him.
“They’re easy to follow without sound.” He sits forward. “Something I can help you with? You should be sleeping right now, princess.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before leveling my gaze at him. “I’m going to ask you to do something and I don’t want to hear any bullshit from you, okay?”
He tilts his head. “Go ahead.”
“Come sleep in bed with me.”
I expect him to make a joke. I expect something lewd—can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you, frigid princess, or something along those lines—but instead he only nods slowly.
“I can do that.”
“Good.” I turn away, already mortified, and storm back into the bedroom. I get under the sheets and I’m regretting this by the time the door shuts and he climbs into the other side.
I hate letting myself be vulnerable, and it’s even worse that I’m doing it around him. My walls are high and made of six-inch-thick steel, and the idea of letting someone like Angelo through makes my skin crawl.
And yet here we are.
In bed together.
We lie there in silence.
I’m intensely away of his big body only a few inches away. Angelo’s hot, like a furnace, and I feel like I need to kick a layer away. But I can’t risk letting him get any ideas. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, trying to relax.
Having him in here helps.
I’m surprised that it’s actually working, but I’m too busy obsessing about him to be afraid.
It’s stupid and embarrassing but I’m too anxious to be alone. Angelo lying in bed with me takes some of that edge off, and I hate myself for being so weak and pathetic, and I hate myself for letting Angelo see this side of me, but I don’t see any other options.