“You’d love to think that, wouldn’t you?”
He was right. I would.
“Is anyone else getting that side of you?”
I didn’t really care one way or the other, but the second the words left my mouth, I felt that twist in my chest. The one that meant I was already too far in to be pretending.
“Are you asking me if we’re exclusive, Valentina?”
Honestly, I wasn’t even sure. Marco wasn’t exactly mine to claim—not in any real way. But the idea of him with someone else felt ...wrong. It made my stomach churn in a way I didn’t like at all.
I shrugged. “We never really discussed how this arrangement works—or if I should expect a mistress to pop up at some inconvenient moment.”
“You think I have time for a mistress?” he asked, as dry as ever.
“I don’t know,” I said, leaning back against the counter. “Do you?”
He was annoyed, maybe even defensive, because this conversation was too personal, too real, and Marco hated anything real.
He rolled his eyes. I was shocked he’d done something so dramatic.
“Believe me, one complicated woman is more than enough.”
He wasn’t seeing anyone else?
For some reason, that didn’t exactly surprise me. Marco had never struck me as the type who’d have a casual fling. He barely had time for me—and the only reason I was even in his orbit was because Max had put me there. I couldn’t picture him willingly complicating his life any more than he already had.
I wondered sometimes, though, if it ever bothered him to be alone. I thought maybe he preferred it. Maybe the isolation suited him. But still, he was human, wasn’t he? At some point, he had to feel that tug of loneliness creeping in; the need for companionship beneath all those layers of reserve.
I caught myself wondering about his experience—how much did he have, exactly?—but I immediately scolded myself. It wasn’t any of my business. But damn, if he didn’t make it hard not to wonder.
Marco was impossible to read. He gave just enough away to intrigue me, but never enough to satisfy that curiosity.
Still, there was no harm in pushing just a little more, right?
“So ... you’re saying I’ve got you all to myself?”
He gave me a dry, vaguely amused look—the one he always reserved for me when I pushed his buttons. “Is that what you want?”
I bit down on a smile. “Maybe,” I said, not fully admitting it was mostdefinitelywhat I wanted. “Polygamy isn’t really my thing. Neither are open marriages.”
That got his attention. “That’s interesting. Because if memory serves, your last marriage wasn’t exactly monogamous.”
“Trial and error,” I scoffed.
“You didn’t like it?”
Oh, I’d liked it well enough at the time. Sebastian, at least, was gorgeous naked and knew exactly what he was doing with all that confidence of his—unlike Cillian, who’d had the sexual appeal and stamina of an overcooked noodle.
Actually, that was unfair to noodles.
Sex with Cillian wasn’t even sex—it was just tragically awkward fumbling that, mercifully, had never progressed beyond painfully embarrassing foreplay. I should probably send a thank-you note to whatever deity had intervened on that one.
“No,” I acknowledged with a stiff neck. “It was too hard to keep track of all my flings, you know.”
He probably wouldn’t know. Probably wouldn’t even know what a fling was. I figured before me, there’d been no one. I mean, maybe there was a barista who’d call him by his name, but I figured that was as much as the guy got. He’d have to actually talk to girls to know what a fling was.
“Right.” His lips folded into a thin line. “Must’ve been exhausting to keep the names straight.”
