I just chose not to say anything. Because what exactlywasI supposed to ask?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
So, now I’m alone on the terrace the next morning with coffee in one hand and too many thoughts in the other, watching the waves come in slow and bright under the sun.
Where is this going?
That question has been chewing through me since I woke up.
I’ve known him for two weeks. Two. That’s it.
Two weeks ago, he was an impossible billionaire with an office that smelled expensive and a secretary who hated me. Now he’s a man who has been inside me, who knows how I sound when I come apart for real instead of into a microphone, who keeps security outside my apartment, who dragged me onto a private jet, who has scars from bullets and a life made of danger and money and secrets.
Oh, and he is also my boss.
He is also older than me by enough that I should probably be alarmed by how much that works for me.
And, perhaps most importantly, he is a part of the freaking mafia.
There is no version of this that should feel normal.
So naturally, I am sitting barefoot in a luxury villa wearing his shirt and drinking coffee from a mug that probably costs more than my winter coat.
My phone buzzes against the chair beside me.
Frankie.
I stare at her name for a second.
Then I answer. “Hey.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Okay, first of all, rude.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’ve been dodging me for, like, twenty-four hours. Which means either you’re dead, in love, or in witness protection.”
I laugh despite myself and look out at the water. “None of those.”
“Mmm.” She is not convinced. “You sound weird.”
“I’m tired.”
“You always say that when you’re about to lie to me.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but she beats me to the next question.
“Where are you?”
I almost answer automatically, but then Frankie says, “Wait. Hold on.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Turn your phone.”
I look down at the screen. “What?”
“Turn your phone, Zee. I saw blue. Is that a pool?”
