I’m taking Marco Fiore back to my apartment.
Tonight.
This is actually happening.
3
Jess
The Range Rover is stupid nice. Like, the kind of nice where I’m afraid to touch anything.
Marco, the gentleman that he is, opens the door for me, and I slide into a world of white leather and wood grain with enough dashboard screens to run a small production studio.
“This is excessive,” I say, because humor is my love language and also my defense mechanism.
“It’s safe.” He closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side.
Right. Safe. Because billionaires worry about things like armored vehicles while I worry about whether my credit card will be declined.
“You don’t have a dedicated driver like other billionaires?” I taunt.
He shrugs. “I like to drive myself most of the time. Helps ground me. So where are we headed?”
I give him my address. He plugs it into the nav system. I’m well aware that it’ll be stored there until he deletes it. But I don’t really care.
I watch his hands on the wheel. Those chef hands. Long fingers, calluses on the fingertips.
I’m definitely staring. Unbidden, a social media hook comes to mind.
“When you realize you’re thirsting over a man’s hands like they’re a fine wine.”
200k views, easy.
Old habits.
“You okay?” Marco glances at me.
“Golden.” I force myself to look out the window instead of at him. In the rearview mirror, I catch headlights following at a steady distance. “Security team behind us?”
“Yes.”
“They always follow you?”
“Basically. It’s protocol.” He says it so casually, like having a security detail is the same as having a gym membership.
I snort. “Must be nice, having people whose entire job is to make sure you don’t die.”
“It’s less glamorous than you’d think.”
“I’m sure it’s terrible, being kept alive by professionals.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “I’ve missed the snark.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“It’s been almost... what... five minutes?”
I laugh, then fiddle with my bracelet, the thin silver one I’ve worn for years. It’s nothing special.
