“I think we’re going to need your friends back there.” My tone is apologetic.
His frown deepens as he circles the container like a lion prowling round its prey.
“I can go fetch them if you like?”
He ignores me, comes to a stop at the other end of the container and grabs the piano in huge, manly paws. Then, witha guttural growl, he pushes the piano onto its end and pivots it to the edge of the container where it rests on the side.
“How many bodies do you need?” he asks, peering into the sea of mutilated mannequins.
“Um, thirteen.”
Again, there’s no response. He just leans into the container and pulls out headless body after headless body, each one life-sized and weighing about forty pounds… one-handed.
It’s only when he has them all piled up that I become aware of the fact I’m staring. The brazen show of masculinity has got my skin humming and my muscles twitching. I force my mouth closed. He must have this effect on everyone—women and men alike.
“Anything else you need help with?”
I bite my lip and remind myself I don’t need any more help, at least not from a guy I’m supposed to be in a mad huff with.
“Na-ah. But thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”
I follow him out of the storage unit. There isn’t a bead of sweat on him after that exertion. Just when I think he’s going to carry on walking and not look back, he turns and completely disarms with warmth in his eyes and the curl of a smile on his lips.
“When’s your next shift at the bar?”
I fold my arms across my stomach, suddenly feeling bared to him. “Tomorrow night.”
He doesn’t respond to that, but his gaze licks me up and down one time before he nods once. “See you around, Erin.”
I watch him walk away then go back inside the cool warehouse.
It takes me about ten minutes after he’s gone for my skin to return to its normal temperature, my pulse to calm the fuck down, and my brain to realize…
I don’t even know his name.
Augusto
I’ve negotiated arms prices with men who’d dance on my grave. I’ve walked into basements knowing I was outnumbered, outgunned, and one wrong step away from a bloodbath. But none of that prepared me for Erin Applebaum walking into Tony Castellano’s office dressed like a fever dream.
The moment the door closed behind her, the air in the room heated, like a log catching fire after simmering for days.
I found her face first. Blue eyes, wet lips, hair mussed up with a rogue feather caught in the strands.
Then my eyes fell to her body.
Christ.
Bare legs. A neckline that looked like the love child of a Regency novel and a porn movie.
I didn’t mean to look for as long as I did, but I couldn’tnotlook.
When she spoke—some sassy comment about nipple tassels—I had to work not to laugh. Tony’s manager did, and I shut that down with a look so fast it happened before I realized.
I didn’t want him looking at her. I didn’t wantanyman looking at her.
So, I accompanied her to the storage unit.
We’d already set off walking when the thought occurred to me it was the perfect moment to ask her to be my fake wife for a week—she was caught off-guard, vulnerable, more likely to agree.
