Disappointment laces through me, but what did I expect? That he would suddenly morph into someone he’s not? That he would confess his deepest, darkest problems to me?
“See you in a few,” I say, and then I breeze out of his room.
Thankfully, my walk of shame isn’t far. I make it to the guest bedroom and close the door before slowly exhaling. I have no idea what I’m doing, aside from having mind-bendingly good sex with a man I shouldn’t even be alone with, let alone hooking up with.
Cid is curled up in the middle of the bed, clearly having abandoned his perch in the living room in favor of the king-size in the guest room that he manages to hog here too. He sees me and stretches, giving me a wide yawn.
“Hard life, being a cat?” I ask him.
He blinks at me, about as responsive as Alessio when my questions pertain to anything other than sex. Great. I’m being stonewalled by both of the men in my life right now.
Men in my life?
Gah.
What am I thinking? I’m sonotthinking. That’s what I’m doing, and that’s what the problem is. I’m letting my ovaries overpower my good judgment. Falling into bed with Alessio again was a mistake. Too bad I don’t regret it.
And that I want to do it again.
Cid makes a cute cat sound at me and gets up, ambling to the edge of the bed. I give him a few obligatory caresses because he’s adorable and he’s soft, and I need a minute to gather my bearings.
Another scratch of Cid’s soft little head, and I throw on some clothing. Alessio really does need to eat, and I also need to get to the bottom of whatever his sudden change was all about.
By the time I pad into the kitchen in my bare feet in search of him, Alessio is rummaging through the fridge, shirtless and wearing a pair of sweatpants that hug his ass perfectly. He sends a glance toward me over his shoulder, a smile transforming him from gorgeous to drop-dead gorgeous.
It’s easy to forget again that he’s a mobster. A criminal. A man who breaks the law for a living, using any nefarious means possible. He looks sexy and accessible right now, like a model posing for a shot, like a man I could have a future with instead of a dangerous kingpin I should avoid like toxic waste.
“Hey,” he says softly.
He’s not scowling at me. Not mocking me. Not glaring.
I don’t know what to do with this gentler version of the man. He’s giving me major Alessio in St. Thomas, before I knew who he really was, vibes. But now I know he’s not completely either one of the faces he’s shown me. He’s not just the charming bartender. He’s also the cutthroat, ruthless Mafia consigliere. A man who will do anything he has to do.
“Did you find anything to eat?” I ask him, trying to navigate my way.
I don’t know what we’re doing, what we are. I don’t know anything, really, except that whatever it is we have can’t last.
“I need to put a call in for a restock. All I see is some sad, wilted Romaine, expired milk, and a jar of pickles.”
His fridge definitely does scream bachelor pad. Somehow, I’m not surprised that he has a personal shopper. He probably has a housecleaner too, which is why his place is so annoyingly tidy and spotless.
“There’s some leftover Indian takeout in there,” I say.
“Vincenzo told me you ordered from my favorite place.”
He’s been checking up on me. I’m also not shocked at his confirmation.
“It was fantastic. You should heat up the rest.” I lean against the counter, trying to act nonchalant about this, even though I’ve never been a casual, no-strings-attached sex person.
I’ve also never been into mobsters, so I guess there’s a first time for everything.
He cocks his head at me. “You sure?”
For a second, I think he’s talking about the inner battle I’m waging with myself over how to feel about the fact that I just took a major leap I wasn’t prepared for. But then I realize he means the Indian takeout.
“Go for it.”
He takes the remainder of my bounty to the counter and silently busies himself by opening containers and prepping the food to be warmed up.
