Honestly, it's almost better than anything.
Except seeing Enzo.
Or Lyndall.
And freedom.
I'm not really sure about the first one. I'm so mad at him that I'm close to falling apart. Or maybe I'll fall apart if I'm not mad at him.
It doesn't matter. They both fit.
Five comes and goes, and I get changed into the sleep T. Because there's nowhere to go, but this time, I just pull on some yoga pants, too. They were in the bundle of clothes I'm betting Lyndall got me.
Enzo's taste is class, sex, and lace lingerie.
"Ugh. Don't think about him," I mutter.
But it's easier said than done.
I pace the suite, and I realize I'm actually hungry. I don't know if it's morning sickness or just being locked up against my will sickness, but I'd kill for a bowl of chicken soup.
This morning, like every morning since I threw the eggs at him—eggs that turned my stomach and the smell of which made me want to hurl—I've only been able to tolerate a few bites of toast and then nothing until nearly seven. But now I'm hit with a wave of hunger.
I don't want any soup.
I want homemade chicken soup with noodles and carrots and celery and onion, finished with dill or parsley.
And with that, I'll take some saltines.
Actually, saltines might be?—
"Lola?"
Everything in me lurches and sparks at the sound of Enzo's voice, and I turn slowly.
He's in his jeans and hoodie, and he's just as sexy as he is in his suit.
"What?"
"Are you ready to talk?"
I go to say no, snapping all the way, but really what I want is to get out of this room and make the soup.
"Can you get some ingredients for me?"
He looks taken aback. "I can get you anything you want."
He whips out his phone.
"I want...do you have a pressure cooker?"
"In twenty minutes, I will."
I gape, but when I realize it, I close my mouth.
He's rich, he can do anything.
Once, I thought I was this rich, too. Though Dad never, in his life, did on-demand things. Never bought things the moment I said I wanted them.
