I take each step carefully.
When I reach the bottom of the servants’ stairs, I pause . . . and that’s when someone grabs me. A hand slips over my mouth.It’s strong and calloused. But it’s familiar. My back hits a solid chest, and I almost scream, but I don’t.
Because I know it’s him. Of course, it’shim.
A giddy, inappropriate giggle escapes against his palm.
He exhales softly against the shell of my ear, sending heat down my spine. “You weren’t supposed to enjoy that.”
I turn my head just enough to meet his shadowed gaze. “You’re not as scary as you think,” I whisper back, my lips brushing the edge of his palm.
“You’re not as careful as you should be.”
His hand leaves my mouth, only to catch my fingers instead. He holds me firmly and leads me up the narrow stairwell.
The air is dusty, and it’s hard to see, but regardless of that, I follow him.
We climb two stories, and duck through a freaking hatch I didn’t know existed.
Next thing I know, we’re outside.
He lets go of my hand. But only barely. His fingers linger like he’s reluctant to lose the connection.
“This is where the staff comes in the fall to clean leaves.” He rolls his sleeves higher. “There’s a locked door on the north side. No one uses it in the summer.”
I look at him, heart knocking on my ribs like it wants to escape. “How did you know I’d come?” I ask, letting the question tilt upward like a dare.
He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes hold mine. “I didn’t,” he admits, his voice softly. “I just knew I’d wait.”
Heat blooms under my skin.
I sit first.
Probably should have brought a blanket, because the stone is super cold.
I don’t mention it though, don’t want to ruin the mood. Or seem high maintenance.
Lorenzo sits beside me.
The silence is different up here. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just . . . full.
“Tell me something true,” I breathe, drawing my knees up like him, resting my chin on them.
He exhales, slow and steady. “That’s a dangerous game.” He glances at me from beneath his lashes.
“Then play it,” I challenge, nudging his knee with mine.
He doesn’t look at me. Just at the stars, like they’re easier to confess to.
“It’s always just been my mom and me,” he starts, voice low, words dragging. “She never talked about my dad. Ever. Not even when I asked.”
I nod slowly, something softening in my chest. “That’s hard.” My fingers curling against the stone.
He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “It was normal to me. Until it wasn’t.”
“Why did you move here?” I ask, watching his throat work as he swallows.
He hesitates. It’s a long pause. Drawn out.
