“You're confident, bold, assertive. You crave excitement and independence and hate when people try to control you. Boredom is your enemy. You need constant mental stimulation, or you start to feel like you’re crawling out of your skin.”
I froze mid page flip, a prickling sensation creeping up the back of my neck. That was…uncomfortably accurate. Especially the last part. My days were packed, sure—but every night, the silence hit me like a wall. I had this ritual: put on a film the second I got home. Just so I wouldn’t have to sit in it.
“She must have been thrilled to help, considering she told you to stay the hell away from me,” I muttered, slapping the pages down and pushing the stack away from me.
“She thinks I shouldn’t do this,” Mia admitted. “But at the end of the day, it’s my choice.”
Interesting. Just when I'd thought she was nothing more than a helpless little lamb, she showed a bit of backbone.
She was a lot more interesting than I'd initially pegged her to be.
She opened her sketchbook and turned it toward me. The way she leaned forward gave me a tantalizing glimpse down her blouse.
Suddenly, I was wide awake, every cell in my body hyperaware of her.
Fuck.
I’ve seen enough tits for two lifetimes. At this point, a good rack was like a well-made whiskey cocktail at the club—appreciated, sure, but nothing that stopped me in my tracks.
Except hers, apparently.
Heat rushed straight down to my cock, and my mind went to places it shouldn’t. Like imagining her sprawled on my bed, nothing but moonlight licking at her skin.
“In Roman mythology, Mars is the god of war, so I thought we could play with that.” She tapped the paper. “Tell me what you think.”
I dragged my gaze to the drawing, forcing myself to focus.
The sketch was clean and precise. A tailored military-style suit, the jacket with a double-breasted cut and a high collar. Ornate silver clasps ran down the chest, and a thick leather belt wrapped around the middle. A deep red cape was pinned to the suit with a brooch, and draped over one shoulder, giving it a dramatic flair. The pants were slimmer than my usual, tucked inside a pair of leather boots.
It looked like the uniform of a celestial warlord.
The god of war.
Yeah, I could see it.
I looked at her. “Sold.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah? You can tell me if you don’t like it.”
I liked it, all right. She had talent. And although that fucking birth chart was an intrusion, the vain part of me was pleased that she’d put so much thought into this instead of just phoning it in.
Most of my suits were made by our family’s tailor—Giuseppe. He was a cranky old man who lectured me about menswear while holding me hostage in his office.
I had a feeling I’d enjoy her fussing over me a hell of a lot more.
“You did well,” I said, picking up a small tube that lay on her desk.
It was her lip gloss.
Berry.
The same one that made her mouth that deep, fuckable shade of red.
She snatched it from my fingers. “Will your brother be at the party?”
My brother? “Which one?”
“Cosimo.”
