I push Cristiano out of my mind, the way I’ve learned to do, because I have better things to think about. Like the massage therapy program I’m enrolled in after summer. Six months of anatomy and physiology and hands-on training, then the licensing exam, then a real career. Something that’s mine. I chose massage therapy first of all because it’s affordable for me. My grades are very good, but Mom could never pay for real college, and the alternative, starting out in life with a huge debt, is too frightening. But most of all, I like the idea of helping people feel better. Easing pain with my touch, releasing tension, and making someone’s day a little less hard.
The walk home takes me through the quieter streets of the neighborhood, past mini-marts with their awnings casting stripes of shade, old men playing dominoes on folding tables, and kids shrieking as they chase each other through the spray of a water fountain. The air smells like warm asphalt and someone’s cooking, a savory scent that makes my stomach growl.
After a few blocks, I pass into the wealthier part of northeast Malus, home to people who rub shoulders with the Montonis. The cars become more expensive and so do the people.
I’m three blocks from home when I see the motorcycle. It’s stopped at the traffic lights across from me, sleek and black. A Ducati. The rider is in all black too. Leather jacket, jeans, boots, helmet. The visor is down, hiding his face.
But I know it’s him.
My stomach tightens. Four years later, my body still remembers the click of a lock. The darkness of the wardrobe. His voice through the wood, so cold and frightening.
Cristiano bought the racing bike just over a year ago. Italian-made, of course, with an engine noise that throbs deep inside you. Most of his friends drive bland, expensive cars, but Cristiano opted for something more rebellious. Something that turns heads. Like he doesn’t get enough attention from women as it is.
He hasn’t moved, and hasn’t done anything to acknowledge my existence, but I feel his stare through the dark visor like heat on my skin. I can’t explain it, but I know he’s watching me. He’s making me feel like prey he’s decided not to chase. Yet.
I turn sharply and head down a side street, my pace quickening. It’s a longer route home, but I don’t care. I just need to get away from the crawling awareness that he’s watching me.
Behind me, I hear the rumble of the motorcycle approaching fast.
My whole body tenses. I keep walking, refusing to look back, my hands curled into fists at my sides.
The rumble grows louder. Closer.
And then he roars past.
Straight past. Doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t turn his head. He’s just a black blur disappearing around the corner, and the sound of the engine fading into the distance.
I stop walking and press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. Maybe I was overreacting. He was just going the same direction as me, and maybe he wasn’t staring at all. It’s been four years of ignoring me. What am I doing,hopingthat he’s still interested in me?
I force a laugh and shake my head. Absolutely not.
When I reach the Montoni mansion, he’s already there.
The Ducati is parked at the curb, and Cristiano is straddling it, his helmet hooked on the handlebar. His black leather jacket is unzipped, revealing a white T-shirt stretched across his chest. He’s not looking at me. His attention is focused on adjusting something on the bike, his brow furrowed in concentration.
He looks older. Harder. The softness of boyhood has been carved away, leaving sharp angles and lean muscle. His jaw is lightly shadowed with stubble. His hands are big and capable, moving with practiced ease over the machine.
He looks dangerous.
He looks sexy.
I hate that I notice, and I hate even more the flutter of attraction beneath my fear. My body remembers what my heart wants to forget.
I keep my head down and walk past him, aiming for the gates. He won’t see me. He’s focused on his bike, and I can just slip inside.
Staring straight ahead, I walk past him.
When he and the bike are a few paces behind me, I hear him.
“Mina.” His voice is quiet, almost bored, like he’s greeting an acquaintance he barely remembers.
I don’t respond. I don’t even turn around. I just keep walking, through the gates and around the house toward the kitchen, my pulse pounding in my ears. Irrational anger sparks in my chest because how dare he still have the power to fluster me after all this time?
That’s the maddening thing about the last four years. Cristiano is everywhere I go, taking up space in my life and my head, whether I want him there or not. He never approaches. Never gives me a single thing I could point to and call inappropriate. But he’s always there. Like he’s waiting for something.
I slam my bedroom door behind me and press my back against it, breathing hard. I wish I could stop being so aware of him. I wish I could hate him properly.
But it’s hard to hate someone who isn’t doing anything wrong.
