“I want you—and I’ve been very clear about that.”
I swallowed, trapped in the power of his stare, losing all feeling in my body.
“I don’t play games. And I don’t want a woman who plays games.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t deepen his tone either. But the way he spoke ... it was unlike him. Unlike the man who was quick to flash a smile and bring sunshine to my clouds. “Do you play games, Aurelia?”
This wasn’t the Constantine I knew. When we were at dinner at Osteria RossoDiVino, I saw a brief figment of this version, of the subtly lethal, subtly sinister man who existed beneath the surface. “No.”
“Then tell me what you want from me.”
I was backed into a corner by this man, the conversation turning from lighthearted to suffocating. Everyone else around us was having a good time at their tables with their drinks and apps, oblivious to the fire burning at our table.
I didn’t know what answer I should give. I didn’t know if I should be honest ... or too honest ... or right on the cusp. “How about you go first—”
“Don’t play games.”
“I’m not playing games—”
“Then tell me what you want from me. Is this really just a meaningless fuck-cation you’re prepared to forget? Or is it something more?” He watched me with his unblinking stare, observing me, analyzing me like his eyes were fucking microscopes. “Because I’m tired of you saying this is temporary when you feel pretty fucking permanent.”
Jesus.
He moved into the table, arms on the surface, bringing his lens even closer.
“I—I just assumed this was casual—”
“Answer the question.”
“I would, but you keep interrupting me.”
He remained serious, but a slow smirk moved over his lips.
“I assumed this was casual. I assumed something beyond tomorrow was off the table.”
“Why?”
“Have you seen you?” I asked incredulously. “Men like you don’t stick around.”
“Men like me?” He cocked his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “What’s that mean?”
“Ridiculously hot. Wealthy. Smart. You wait until the very last minute to settle down with a girl, usually in your forties, and then you’ll marry a twenty-five-year-old. I assumed we wouldn’t see each other after the holiday was over. Seems presumptuous to assume anything else.”
That smirk deepened. “This is the part where you tell me what you want. Or do I have to ask again?”
“Of course I want you, Constantine.” Of course I wanted this to continue, but this man could rip my heart out of my chest and kill me instantly—physically and emotionally. “But truth is, I just got out of a relationship, and I should probably heal first. What I’ve been doing this week is just ... pretending the pain isn’t there.”
He watched me with those hard eyes.
“But yes, I still want to keep seeing you.”
That seemed to be the answer he wanted, because he sat back in his chair. “You can stay with me when we return to Rome.”
“What do you mean, stay with you?”
“You have to move out of your old apartment, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Stay with me until you find your new place.”
