Dante moves to the door, pausing just long enough to toss Grant a look over his shoulder. “Try not to be too charming without me,Lucciolina?*.”
Then to me: “Don’t get too comfortable, sweetheart. You’re not the only one who knows how to play games.”
He leaves with a grin that sayscheckmate.
And somehow . . . I think he means it.
Hm. We’ll see about that—sweetheart.
* Little glowbug / firefly
The executive lounge is quiet—too quiet for midafternoon and empty.
Glass walls, leather chairs, some overpriced art on loan from a gallery in Tribeca. The whole place looks like money, but not comfort. Designed for efficiency, not reflection. The kind of space where no one lingers longer than they need to.
“Coffee?” I ask, already moving to the machine by the liquor cabinet.
“Espresso,” she answers without hesitation.
Hm, not a drip-kind-of-girl. Not sweetened. Just—espresso. Direct. No room to hide.
The answer hits with a quiet precision, like everything else about her.
Sharp. Uncompromising. Unexpectedly attractive.
I slot the capsule and press the button, watching it hiss into the small porcelain cup. I always pay attention to how people take their coffee. It tells me what I need to know.
Whether they want to be soothed or jolted. Whether they’re used to waiting—or used to getting what they want immediately.
I hand it to her. She nods with a polite smile.
Her fingers graze mine.
It shouldn’t register. But it does.
Warm. Steady. Not flirtation. Just presence. And somehow, that’s worse.
I take the seat across from her, posture straight. Not stiff, but not casual either. Calculated.
She crosses one leg over the other and asks, “Tell me how we got here.”
There’s nothing overt in the motion—no seduction, no signal. But my eyes catch anyway.
Noticing the way she fits this space like she owns it.
How smooth her legs look. How soft they must be.
I’ve always been attracted to women—that part’s never been hard to admit. It’s just been a while.
And this woman bargains sex like a commodity and according to Wolfe, she’s one of the best the Ledger has to offer. That must be why I’m cataloging each small move and subtle expression.
I lean back slightly, arms resting on the chair’s edges, and swallow. “You’ll have to be more specific. ‘Here’ could mean a dozen things.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes. I do.
But I’m not about to hand her the match and point her toward the fuse.
