As soon as we stepped inside, Johnny vanished, and Rem guided me through a maze of hallways to an empty bedroom. He pointed out the ensuite bathroom (stocked full of luxe toiletries), a closet with spare clothes, and told me to get some sleep.
He closed the door behind him with a click. I waited for the lock to slide into place, but it never happened.
I tested the handle, just to be sure. It opened easily, silently. I was too tired to think about what that meant, so I did the fastest bedtime routine in history, found a shirt in the closet that swallowed only seventy-five percent of my body, and collapsed into bed.
That must’ve been about four hours ago, going by the bedside clock.
Four hours when I was dead to the world and reality had no chance to intrude.
Now that I’m awake, it’s come knocking very, very loudly and I’m in no state to let it in.
I reach for my phone only to realize I don’t have one. We found the shattered remains of it when we went back to my apartment last night. Great. Add that to my to-do list: spend money I don’t have on a new phone.
Every inch of me is restless. Going back to sleep isn’t an option. Flipping on the bedside lamp, I scan the room. There’s no TV, no computer, no signs of any high-tech screen-y thing concealed in the walls. Guess watching a movie isn’t an option either.
“Definitely going to knock some stars off his Airbnb rating,” I mutter, swinging my legs free of the duvet.
I tossed my underwear in the trash last night, along with the ruined work uniform. I vaguely remember Rem saying something about buying replacement clothes. Until that happens, I’m not going in search of snacks or a screen in only a shirt. With a quick root around the closet, I find a pair of too-large sweatpants. After rolling the waistband up at least ten times, I feel sufficiently armored to go looking for something to keep my mind in a blissful state of denial until sunrise.
I’m only a few feet down the hall when I realize my mistake. This place is more than a maze. It is a mythic-level labyrinth.
One hall leads to another series of bedrooms, all empty. Another dead-ends at a staircase that goes down into a darkness I have no desire to explore. Another leads to a set of balcony doors, the freezing winter air sketching ice against the glass.
Frustrated, and a tiny bit worried that I’ll never make it back to my bedroom, I try one last hall. There’s a light somewhere toward the end, a low glow that indicates there might be something worth heading for.
I’m halfway down the corridor when I hear someone talking. The voice is coming from an alcove off to one side. I tiptoe closer and the indistinguishable din becomes words. Italian ones. Holding my breath, I peek around the corner and see a door in the alcove. It’s partially open, light pouring from inside.
The voice inside sounds strained. Exhausted. Familiar.
Blissful state of denial. That’s the excuse I give when I push the door open and take in the man seated at the large desk in the center of the room.
Denial that this is a bad idea. Denial that this is dangerous. Denial that this isn’t some waking dream and there won’t be consequences come morning.
Denial full stop.
The door swings open on silent hinges but, always so aware of his surroundings, Rem’s head flies up. He starts to reach for something—his hand about to wrap around what looks like a gun sitting on his desk—when he registers who is standing in front of him.
Recognition followed by surprise. Then comes something hotter, far more tempting before he looks away, abruptly ending his phone call as he resumes typing on his computer. “It’s late,piccolina, you should be sleeping.”
“True.” My bare feet make no sound on the thick rug. I bypass the two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk and stop by the side. “So should you.”
Rem grunts, keeps typing.
“I can’t sleep.”
He doesn’t bother looking up. “I can give you something for that.”
“I don’t think sleeping pills on top of pain killers on top of a gunshot wound is a good idea, do you?”
That prompts him to look at me. Maybe I’m still sleep-addled but I think I see guilt pass across his features. Rem reaches for my side then stops himself. “Does it hurt? It didn’t look infected when we changed the bandage, but I can check again. See if there’s any redness?—”
“No, stop. I’m fine.”
There’s a notch of concern in his brows and, unexpectedly, it makes him look more approachable. Less fierce, more human.
Even more enticing.
I step around the corner of the desk and prop myself on the edge closest to him, my butt resting just to the side of his computer. I really must be insane because I don’t despise the heat that crawls into his eyes, the way his lips part on a breath that’s a little too quick. Nope, I don’t hate it at all.
