The steamer wand huffed angrily as I dragged it over Romolo’s finished suit. He was due to arrive for his fitting any minute.
Two days had passed since the night in the Hamptons. Plenty of time to reflect, overanalyze, and go in and out of mental tailspins.
He hadn’t texted me since that night. Why would he? His last words to me had been that a deal was a deal. He’d reduced our kiss to a bargaining chip. I had no idea what he was thinking, or if he’d thought about me at all.
On the other hand, I’d thought about him plenty, pondering all his complexities and contradictions.
Lust, I could handle. What I couldn’t handle was the rest.
The curiosity. The butterflies. The gnawingneed. And most of all, the way I sometimes secretly enjoyed the morally questionable things he did.
Like pinning me to a bed. Cornering me in my office. Coercing me to climb onto his lap and then bribing me for a kiss. He had power, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.
Something about that appealed to me, which was seriously messed up. Continuing down this path would lead me to dangerous places.
My only comfort was reminding myself that nothing terrible had happened—yet. No one had caught us doing anything we were definitely not supposed to be doing together. But I’d always believed that breaking rules had consequences, and eventually, they caught up with you.
I wasn’t going to gamble with fate. Not when my entire plan—if I could even call it that—was held together by wishful thinking and duct tape.
Fabi was set on this wedding. My dad’s poll numbers were climbing, despite whatever the Ferraros were doing on their end. Neither of them needed my help. It was time to admit I was more likely to cause harm than do any good by continuing this. And not just to them, but to myself.
Which was why today had to be our last meeting.
With a sigh, I placed the steamer wand back in its holder. I was rifling through my desk drawer—wherewasmy lip gloss?—when the door creaked open.
My head snapped up.
Romolo stepped inside. He was wearing a worn leather jacket over a black T-shirt and dark-wash jeans.
Ugh. The look worked well on him, although I was convincedeverythingworked well on him.
Our eyes clashed.
“Mia.” The low rumble of his voice slid through the air and coasted down my spine.
“Rom.”
A charged silence settled between us.
We were trying to read each other. At least, I was.
Is he thinking about it, too?
The deck. The rain. His hands on me. His mouth against mine.
Nope. Not going there.It was time to move forward.
“About what happened?—”
“That night was?—”
We both stopped.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Ladies first.”
Now he wants to be a gentleman?Of course. The one time I didn’t want courtesy, he handed it to me like a loaded gun.
