One kiss. One stupid, accidental brush of lips that lasted maybe two seconds, and my entire body is lit up like a Vegas marquee. I can still feel the ghost of his mouth against mine, the brief scratch of stubble, the warmth of his breath.
Pull it together, Sierra.
I steal a glance at Matteo as he starts the engine. His jaw is set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. The man could be plotting murder or contemplating what to have for dinner, and his expression would be identical.
“Did you post the picture?” he asks.
Right. The picture. The whole reason we were pressed together in the first place.
I pull out my phone and stare at the image of us. Our faces are close, my smile bright and his almost, almost there. We look like a real couple. Like people who actually chose each other.
My thumb hovers over the share button.
This is it. Once I post this, there’s no taking it back. Viktor will see it. My family will see it. The entire world will know that Sierra Dixon is engaged to a man she met less than two weeks ago.
At least my family already knows. I called my parents last night to warn them, spinning some story about following my heart and knowing when it’s right. They were shocked. Maybe even a little worried. But they love me enough to want to believe it, and that made lying to them so much worse.
I hit post before I can talk myself out of it.
“Done.” I tuck my phone into my pocket like it might bite me.
The muscles in my shoulders coil tight, and I catch myself scanning the street outside the truck. Looking for what? Viktor’s car? A threat that probably isn’t there yet?
“I’m nervous,” I admit, hating how small my voice sounds. “What if Viktor reacts right away? What if he’s watching my social media and comes to my apartment?”
“I promised to keep you safe.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like protecting someone from a violent stalker is just another item on his to-do list, right between fixing motorcycles and brooding mysteriously.
“I’m not taking you home,” he adds.
“What? Where are we going?”
“You have the night off. I’m hungry.” He glances at me, and something in his expression softens by a fraction. “You ever had real Italian food?”
“Does Stouffer’s lasagna count?”
He lets out a huff that sounds like it wants to be a laugh, and it hits me somewhere south of my navel. I squeeze my thighs together and look out the window.
“No,” he replies. “It really doesn’t.”
The restaurant is inside a casino, and the moment we step through the doors, I understand that this is Matteo’s territory. Two men flank the entrance like sentinels, and they both incline their heads as we pass. Matteo’s hand settles on the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I shouldn’t like it this much. The possessive weight of his palm. The way people look at him and then at me, probably wondering who I am and why I’m with him.
But I do like it. God help me, I do.
Inside, the smell of garlic and melting cheese wraps around me, and my stomach growls loud enough that I pray Matteo didn’t hear it.
The hostess leads us to a table against the wall, her eyes darting to Matteo every few seconds like she’s afraid he might bite. I remember feeling that way about him. The size of him, the permanent scowl, the dangerous energy that radiates off him like heat from asphalt.
I’m not sure I feel that way anymore.
I don’t know when it changed. Maybe it was the way he touched my bruises so gently in the alley, like he was angry at the marks but careful with my skin.
Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Viktor never gave me choices. He told me where we were going, what I was wearing, when I was allowed to speak. But Matteo asked. He made this whole insane plan sound like something I could walk away from, even when we both knew I was desperate. He handed me the power to say no and actually meant it.
Or maybe it was fifteen minutes ago, when his lips touched mine and the whole world went sideways.
