Rather than arguing, she digs into her handbag and pulls out a piece of paper. “Here you go,” she says, her tone dipped in sugar.
“What’s that?” I ask, narrowing my eye.
When she doesn’t answer, I take it from her. I can’t help laughing as I read it. This is a bill from Spotless & Co. A goddamn cleaning company.
“Oh, you know,” she sing-songs. “It’s the bill for wreaking havoc on my apartment, Matteo. Since you’re the one who made it look like a five-year-old had been home alone, you should be the one paying.”
“Is that so, Little Thief?” I rasp. “Have we forgotten why I was there?”
She waves me off. “Not at all. But two wrongs don’t make one right… or however the saying goes.”
“Fine,” I grin. “I’ll pay for it. But that means you’ll be paying for something else. Something of my choosing.” I have no intention of making her pay for anything. She’s right, I did the damage, so I should be the one paying. But I don’t need to tell her that. Let her stew.
Before she can argue, I stand and get ready to leave. Holston chooses that exact moment to re-enter the room, which makes me think he’s been skulking around outside the room without me noticing.
Taking his time, he sits back down. “Have you two come to an agreement?” he asks, somehow managing to make it sound like it was his choice to leave the room.
“We have,” I confirm. “Ms. Carter’s thrilled to take me on as a client alongside her current workload.”
Holston, oblivious to the specifics, beams. “This is excellent news. A partnership with Russo Industries will be—”
“Not with Russo Industries,” I correct coldly. “With me. Personally.”
The distinction lands like a slap. Holston’s smile falters, then fixes itself back in place. “Of course,” he amends. “Even better. Will there be any paperwork that needs signing, or?”
What he’s really wanting to know is whether or not I’m going to pay for her time. But if he’s not going to ask outright, I see no point in answering an unvoiced question.
I button my suit jacket in a single, fluid motion. Holston scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. “A pleasure as always, Nathan.” I extend my hand, gripping his firmly enough to make him wince.
“Likewise,” he manages, eyes darting between Raven and me. “I’m sure you’ll be very satisfied with Raven’s work.”
I turn to her, watching as she rises. “I have no doubt,” I murmur, stepping into her space.
Before she can react, I place one hand on her waist and lean in, pressing my lips to her cheek. I linger there a beat too long, my breath warm against her ear. “I look forward to our collaboration, Ms. Carter,” I whisper, feeling her slight tremor against my palm. “I’ll pick you up at eight sharp.”
When I pull back, her eyes are wide, conflicted. But she doesn’t step away, doesn’t shrink. “I’ll be ready,” she replies, the slight catch in her voice almost imperceptible.
Almost.
The rest of my day passes in a blur of fucking tedium. Meetings where I have to listen to people I don’t care about doing the talking. Yawn. A quick visit to a warehouse to double-check it’s ready for an incoming shipment. Double yawn.
It’s all bullshit that keeps the family business running smoothly but doesn’t light my fire. All I can think about is dinner. About Raven in her assigned role, playing girlfriend to the monster. About whether she’ll break character or surprise me with how well she can lie.
By the time my driver pulls up to her apartment building at seven-fifty, anticipation burns low in my gut like a slow fuse.
She’s already waiting outside, which should please me. I hate waiting around. But since this is supposed to look like a date, it doesn’t fit.
“Good evening,” I say, opening the door, ready to get out and greet her.
Raven waves me off and slides into the back seat beside me. “Sup,” she says simply.
Fuck me, I could get used to her attitude. It’s intoxicating.
The gray dress she’s wearing matches my eye color exactly. Is that a coincidence, or is she making a statement? Maybe she’s trying to fuck with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s her plan.
The halter top, paired with the kind of cut that shows more side-boob than any sane man can ignore, is already messing with my head.
When she turns to set her purse aside, the motion flashes smooth skin all the way down her back before the fabric tightens again around her hips. It’s elegant, I’ll give her that. And just like the woman herself, there’s not a modicum of modesty.
