Throwing her head back, she lets out a loud laugh that echoes off the walls. “Jesus, Matteo. Do you think I have a death wish? I’m not touching your fake girlfriend with a ten-foot pole.”
I go to leave, but she stops me again. This time by moving around me to block my path instead of touching me. “Kayla,” I growl. “Get out of my way.”
“No, wait. There’s more I have to say,” she insists.
“Spit it out then.” I know I’m being short with her, but this is starting to get to me. I’m chasing fucking ghosts here.
“I think you’re wrong about the tattoo,” she rushes out, the only indicator she’s nervous about bringing that up.
“Oh?”
She nods. “How many times have you looked at people’s tattoos until now?” When she pauses, I know she expects me to reply, but I just shrug. “I’m worried we’re only seeing it because we’re looking for it.”
I get what she’s trying to say, and a part of me is starting to agree. There’s no way of knowing how many people have that specific tattoo, or when they got it. The one on this guy isn’t new, but I can’t tell if it’s over a year old.
We both freeze when there’s a loud clang. As one, we turn and run back to the room where the guy’s tied… wait a second. He’s not tied up. I fucking… fuck.
I pull out my gun before throwing open the door, but I shouldn’t have bothered. The man hasn’t armed himself, he’s fucking slit his own throat. And now he’s laying in a pool of his own blood.
Kayla kicks the knife out of his outstretched hand before checking his pulse. “Dead,” she announces grimly. “The coward killed himself.”
Chapter 19
Raven
The first time Matteo shows up at my door with coffee and breakfast, I nearly slam it in his face. It’s seven in the morning, and I’m in no mood to play girlfriend or nice.
But the smell of coffee hits me like salvation, rich and dark and precisely what my sleep-addled brain is screaming for.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak, voice still rusty with sleep.
Matteo strolls past me like he owns the place, setting the bag on my kitchen counter. “I said I’d bring breakfast.”
“I thought that was just… I don’t know, dirty talk.” Clearing my throat, I correct that assumption. “I mean, I thought you’d turn up at a normal time. Not in the middle of the night.”
He looks at me then, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Do you consider breakfast talk dirty? Or was it the thought of what we could do with said food?”
I roll my eyes and use my hand to cover a yawn. It’s way too early to think about licking syrup off his impressive body. Way. Too. Early.
The food turns out to be an egg white omelet with spinach and feta for him, which smells as boring as it looks. Nothing like the French toast with berries he brought for me. I eye the syrup-drenched masterpiece suspiciously.
“How did you know I like French toast?”
He shrugs, already cutting into his health-conscious monstrosity. “Lucky guess,” he replies.
I want to question him more, but the first bite melts on my tongue, and suddenly I don’t care how he knows my breakfast preferences. I’m too busy trying not to make inappropriate noises while shoving food into my face.
We eat in relative silence, the only sounds being the clink of forks against plates and my occasional moan of appreciation. I’m not a morning person, and he doesn’t seem like a small talk kind of guy, so it works.
When he leaves forty minutes later, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
The second time he shows up, I’m slightly more prepared. I’ve at least brushed my hair, though I’m still in sleep shorts and an oversized tee when his sharp knock rattles my doorframe.
“This isn’t going to be a thing,” I tell him as I accept the coffee he thrusts into my hands.
“Of course not,” he agrees, placing a bag of what smells like blueberry muffins on my counter. His tone makes it clear he thinks it’s absolutely going to be a thing.
When his knock comes by the fifth morning, I call out, “The door’s open,” and I’m already sitting at my kitchen island waiting for my breakfast.
