The three dots appeared immediately.
Nicola:
By force not by choice.
I can tolerate you, I guess.
I grinned.
“She texted you?” Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow.
“She did.”
“Damn. She must be desperate.”
“Careful,” I muttered, but I was still smiling as I replied.
Matteo:
Tolerable. I’ll take it. Underground club, huh? Should I wear all black and prepare to be judged by your impossible standards?
Her response came so fast it had me chuckling before I even finished reading it.
Nicola:
Wear whatever. Just don’t embarrass us.
And no sunglasses indoors.
I looked up at Alexander, shaking my head as I finished my drink.
He smirked. “You look like someone just handed you pole position.”
“She said I’m tolerable now.”
“Wow. Proposals must be next.”
I flipped him off lazily and typed back one more message:
Matteo:
Careful, Moretti. You keep inviting me places and I might start thinking you like me.
Nicola:
Don’t push it, DeLuca.
But I would, and if she thought I wasn’t going to show up tonight looking like her next bad decision, well—she wasn’t paying enough attention.
That night, Alexander appeared in the doorway of my room, already dressed in dark jeans and a perfectly fitted navy shirt. Of course he looked effortlessly good, the smug bastard.
“Going with the black, huh?” he said, leaning on the doorframe like he was there to deliver judgment.
“It’s a club,” I replied, buttoning the shirt halfway and turning to check myself in the mirror. “And Nicola Moretti will be there. I’m not showing up looking like a clown.”
“Didn’t stop you in Monaco,” he said under his breath.
I glared at him in the mirror. “That shirt was a limited edition.”
