Which is more or less what happened.
Giovanni stands close without touching me. I’m acutely aware of the heat of him, of the way his presence fills the small space. When the doors open, I almost flinch.
The penthouse is a lot. There’s no other word for it.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft lighting. Furniture that looks like it belongs in magazines I flip through while waiting in line. Everything is deliberate and expensive and calm, like chaos has never been allowed to cross the threshold.
It makes my chest tighten.
“Are you tired?” Giovanni asks.
The answer hits me all at once.
Yes.
Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. The kind that creeps up on you when you finally stop running on adrenaline.
“I think so,” I say.
He nods, like that settles something.
I wander down the hall without really choosing a direction, drawn by the promise of a bed. When I find one, I don’t questionit. I toe off my shoes, mumble a vague “thanks, goodnight,” and faceplant onto the mattress.
The bed is soft. Too soft. I sink into it, the weight of the day crashing down all at once.
Embarrassment creeps in as the tears finally stop.
I made a fool of myself. I screamed. I sobbed. I collapsed into his arms like I couldn’t stand on my own. I hate that memory almost as much as I hate the destruction waiting for me back home.
I roll onto my side and bury my face in the pillow.
There’s a soft sound behind me.
Fabric shifting.
I sit bolt upright.
Giovanni is standing near the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing in my room?” I blurt.
He pauses, eyebrow lifting slightly. “Actually, you’re in my room.”
I look around.
The bed is enormous. The furniture more restrained, more personal. A faint scent in the air that I recognize now—clean, dark, unmistakably him.
Not a guest room.
Hisroom.
“Oh,” I say.
Heat rushes to my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I start, scrambling to my feet. “I didn’t realize, I’ll just?—”
His hand comes out, light but firm, pressing against my shoulder.
