I refuse to lose.
“I don’t need a coat,” I say, walking past him. Or attempting to.
His hand wraps around my upper arm, rooting me in place. The heat seeps in even through the fabric of my romper. My head snaps to the side, sending a glare his way, but he just looks down at me with a blank stare. I swear, he rarely shows any emotion.
“You might not want a coat, but you’ll need it. I made a deal with your brother, and that deal entails keeping you alive and well. Rosa, a coat.”
I try to tug my arm out of his hold, but he’s unmoving. We stay like that for a minute before Rosa places a colorful red wool coat on my shoulders. And to my irritation, the asshole decides to “assist” me with putting the coat on, forcing my arms through the coat’s holes.
I can’t help myself, clearly, because as he’s buttoning it up, I ask him, “Are you always this…”
He gives me a look.
Pressing my lips together, I continue. “Robotic?”
His eyes narrow before he shakes his head and turns to leave without a word, as if he expects me to follow him like a dog.
Why are hot men assholes?
9
MARA
Naples is…breathtaking. Stone roads, trees and plants everywhere. And you can see the ocean from the side we’re on. It’s quiet. You can practically hear the waves. There was never a time when New York was “quiet.”
Rolling down the window, I rest my arms on the car door and close my eyes, letting the wind mess up my hair and feeling the cool air against my face. It’s only me and Nico in the car, no driver this time.
“Romiro mentioned that you grew up in Naples. What was it like?” I keep my head perched on the window, turning slightly to look at him on the driver’s side.
Nicolo’s leaning back, his hands resting low on the wheel. There’s something so sexy about a man when he’s driving. I don’t know what it is, but it’s so attractive.
“Fine.” One word. Of course that’s all he says.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back to look out the window, muttering “robot” under my breath. I don’t bother with any more questions for the rest of the ride.
Soon, the car turns a corner and slips onto a small alley, barely wide enough to fit the car and have people on the sides.We come to a stop outside a building made out of what looks like centuries-old stone. The entrance is an archway made of carved stone, and above it rests a sign with elegant letters.
La Reina.
Tucked between crumbling brick and old archways, the boutique is understated. Quiet. Confident. The kind of place you stumble into by accident and leave wondering how your bank account bled dry.
I step out of the car first and nearly stumble and fall, but Nicolo catches me by the elbow. I hate wearing flats. Heels are at the top of my list.
As we step through the stone archway, the scent of the place fills my lungs. La Reina smells like lily of the valley and powdery iris. Soft, but powerful.
Mellow music plays in the boutique—no lyrics, just tender piano notes. I head straight for the undergarments section; the robot following behind me keeps his distance. An idea begins forming in my head. Let’s see how long this robot can remain this unfeeling.
When I catch the eye of one of the sales associates, he makes his way toward me with a smile.
“Bongiorno, signorina,” he says smoothly, his voice like fine espresso—warm, rich, with a bite of confidence.
He’s well-dressed, of course. Tailored navy slacks, loafers that cost more than the average New Yorker’s rent, and a silk pocket square folded just so.
“Welcome to La Reina. We’ve been expecting you.” He gives me slight, practiced smile. Not too familiar. Just enough to make whoever feel like royalty walking through the doors of their own empire. “The dressing suites are prepped, the signorina Giulia is on hand should you wish for alterations. Shall I bring prosecco…or espresso?”
“I’m just looking,” I tell him with a polite smile, giving him a singular nod before he can offer a tour—or worse, commentary.
He dips his head before stepping back, the perfect blend of helpful and invisible.
