“I’ve just seen you head up there a few times this week and wondered if it’s more than business. Like, if a friend’s staying there or…something.”
My fingers tighten on the wheel. Is he asking if I’m holing up a lover in the penthouse?
Yes, between working eighty hours a week and rolling in the hay with you, I have another guy on call up there. Two, in fact. And I keep a third in Chef’s walk-in freezer. On literal ice for those sexy times emergencies.
I open my mouth to unleash a blistering reply but pause.
Wait.
Does he know about my family?
He’s seen Brody around the Cypress. But does that mean he’s aware of the mobster book club?
Is this my chance to confess who I am and where I’m from?
Is this a test?
I conjure a script in my head.
Yes, Kellin, I’m spending an exorbitant amount of time in the penthouse because my father, the head of the Port Kings, the West Coast faction of that mob, likes to abuse his power over me and my place of business. So, if we get married and have six babies, they will all be bad seeds, or half-bad seeds, or maybe a quarter now that I’m doing the math. But this does mean there’s a chance they could grow up to be royal assholes. Like giant royal assholes with murder in their veins.
So…you still in?
I side-eye him, deciding to forgo the six-baby comment in lieu of a saner response. “That’s confidential information, Mr. Jameson. You know hotel policy.”
He doesn’t push, but if I thought a storm hovered on the horizon before we climbed into the car, the forecast now calls for golf ball-sized hail.
The cold shoulder he’s throwing off could power a blizzard.
I can’t even enjoy the violins during the second movement,Winter, and that’s my favorite part.
Jerk.
Ten agonizing minutes later, we enter the parking garage of the hotel.
Kellin pecks me on the cheek and scoots out of the car before the key is even out of the ignition. “I’ve got to make some calls. Catch up later?”
My “yes” is swallowed by the slamming of his door.
All right then.
Without a backward glance, he darts into the emergency stairwell rather than the elevator.
I gape at the closed fire door and rub the growing ache in my chest, the fingers of my other hand clenched around the keys.
This. This is why I’ve avoided love for so long.
That emotion only leads to pain.
Love is just a sugar-coated lie. A razor in a candy apple.
Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I rewind the events of the morning.
Hot sex, a little more aggressive than usual, but still six out of five stars.
A text, and a few more, a phone call, and then that weird question about the penthouse.
My spine stiffens as realization dawns.
