He tapped his leg and smirked. “Google.”
I stuttered and sat up indignantly on the white sofa, pulling my cropped black tank down in a huff. “You were looking that up? I thought you were working! What the fuck, Bastian?”
One side of his mouth pulled up in a casual smile. “I like knowing outcomes, Katie.”
“That’s not fun at all.” I threw a pillow at him. “Don’t you think it would have been nice to guess with me?”
“Not interested.” He caught the pillow with ease and set it on his lap. His manly hand waved toward the television. “I don’t want to waste all that time watching something if I won’t like the outcome.”
“That defeats the whole purpose of the narrative, of the viewing experience.”
“Why waste time on trivial entertainment if you’ll be frustrated when the ending isn’t what you wanted?”
My jaw dropped in disbelief. I wanted to tell him that some things were best left as a surprise, that Google couldn’t write out an experience, especially not a personal one. Yet his reasoning, which I’d never considered, made a lot of sense.
“You’re bizarre,” I conceded as I crossed my arms over my chest and fell back into the soft cushions of the couch.
“I like to think I’m efficient and prepared.” Bastian unfolded from his leather recliner, chuckling. I shamelessly looked him over as he stretched and then walked toward me. He was a tall Italian drink of water, a perfect specimen of a man. His body moved languidly, like he was completely comfortable in his own skin. His broad shoulders framed his lean body, and I could make out the outline of a six pack underneath the T-shirt he wore. His bare forearms didn’t need to be flexed for me to see the strong muscles where his veins popped.
We were getting along brilliantly, obviously.
Except that we didn’t have sex.
He looked at me sometimes like he might try. I probably looked at him that way too.
Correction: I know I did.
I considered how our arrangement would change if it happened and didn’t quite care about that. The only thing that stopped me was the memory of Rome’s hands on me that night in the bar.
He’d burned something into me, imprinted on me, and left a mark I couldn’t erase. I was stained with the idea of him, and no matter how hard I tried to wash away the memory, it stayed.
“Katie, do I need to throw those damn things on your feet away?” Bastian grumbled as he stood over where I was lying on the couch, feet up over the back because sitting properly on his overly expensive couch felt way too cushy for me. I wasn’t that person.
“Only if you want a knife at your neck,” I said.
He knelt down to get level with me. “You will never hold a knife to my neck. You know this.”
“Maybe.” I swung my feet around and jumped up. I pulled at my black shorts, but they didn’t cover much of my ass, and my shirt didn’t hide much of my stomach either. “Maybe not. I’m willing to bet I’ll have an opportunity, though.”
He glared at me for a second and then laughed his ass off. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“If you say so.” A knock sounded at the door. I lifted an eyebrow. “Takeout?”
“You know it.” He nodded and went to get the food someone left on his doorstep. Perks of the mob.
I peered around him at the bag he set on the table. “What’s in it?”
“Food.”
“I’m starved. You leave me here to rot all the time.”
“I leave you here to go to work.”
“Your work is my work, right? My blood, your blood.”
“Not right now. You’re holing up for bait, and the intense bait dates start next week, actually. Do you know what you want to wear to the gala? We’re supposedly raising money for a charity.”
“Sounds fancy.”