Page 192 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

“I’m not joking, Michael.” She presses up against my chest. “You owe me buttered popcorn, slushies, and loads of candy.”

I laugh. “Okay. Okay. I’ll even get you one of those big pretzels you like.”

Her eyes get big. “Really?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I don’t know. You might get lucky again tonight if you keep talking like that.”

That pulls a big laugh out of me, and she looks pleased with herself. I cup her face and kiss her.

I take her hand, and we walk to the foyer together. At the stairs, we separate. She heads upstairs. Halfway up, she turns.

“Half an hour,” she says. “You promised.”

“Go. Your cowboy is waiting for you,” I smile.

She sticks her tongue out and heads the rest of the way up the stairs. I watch her turn to our bedroom, and then I turn down the hall toward my office.

When I open the door, my men are already inside, lined up. Marco and Enzo stand at the center, holding a man between them. His head hangs forward.

“Boss.”

Adam steps out of line and hands me a pistol.

I spread my hands. “Well, look who finally decided to show the fuck up.”

Then I swing, the butt of the pistol cracking against Sal’s jaw.

Chapter 70

Katie

I’ve been sitting in bed for the better part of an hour, and I’m running out of patience. I read six chapters, stalked Sarah’s Bahamas trip with Luca, liked every picture like a good friend, and now I’m bored.

He said thirty minutes. I’m starting to think he doesn’t know how time works. I check the time again even though I already know it hasn’t changed enough to matter. It’s been long enough that I’ve gone through everything I can think of doing without actually getting up.

My phone is still in my hand, screen lighting up my face, but I’m not even really looking at it anymore. I’ve scrolled past the same posts twice now. There’s nothing new. Nothing interesting. Nothing that makes the time move any faster.

I glance at the time again and toss my phone onto the bed beside me. Nothing changes. I sit there for another second anyway, waiting for something to shift. It doesn’t. The air doesn’t move. The house doesn’t creak. There’s nothing.

I get up, throw on some sweatpants, and leave the room. It’s mostly dark in the hall, but light from downstairs reaches all the way up, enough for me to see the stairs. It’s quiet. All of the staff have gone home or to bed. The hallway stretches out in both directions, doors closed, everything behind them shut off for the night. The light from downstairs doesn’t just hit the bottom of the staircase, it climbs, faint, touching the walls, the floor, the railing.

The silence settles around me as I step out, filling the space usually occupied by voices and movement. There’s no music, footsteps, or doors opening and closing. It’s only the soft sound of my own breathing and the fabric of my clothes shifting as I move.

I take the steps, trailing my fingers down the long banister. The marble beneath my feet runs wide across the foyer. I’ve been living in this house for months, and I still haven’t gotten used to its size. The space opens up around me the second I step off the last stair, the ceiling rising high above, the floor extending out in every direction. My footsteps barely make a sound against the floor, swallowed by how open everything is. The sound disappears almost as soon as it happens.

I pass by the dining room, the table set for more people than ever actually sit there, and head straight for the kitchen. It’s farther back, past another piece of open space. The chairs are perfectly spaced, untouched, and the table is cleared except for whatever the staff left earlier.

I flip the switch by the island. The rest of the room fades off into shadow. The cabinets tower overhead. The counters run long. Everything about it feels oversized. The light above the island creates a small pocket in the center, the only place that feels like it belongs to someone.

I walk across the room to the massive industrial-sized fridge, grab a soda and a strawberry yogurt, and pull a spoon from the drawer on my way to the table. The fridge door is heavy, the kind that closes with a solid sound, sealing everything back in. I set the yogurt down, twist it open, and sit. The chair legs scrape softly as I sit. I settle into the seat, pulling one leg up slightly, getting comfortable.

I take a bite of my yogurt, then another, scrolling without really paying attention to anything on my screen. My thumb moves, sliding past posts, pictures, and captions I don’t read. I take a sip of my drink, set it down, and pick it up again a second later. Time moves, but it doesn’t feel like it’s moving fast enough.

I scroll through my phone a little longer, eating and sipping my drink. Once I’m finished, I toss everything in the trash, rinse my spoon, and put it back in the drawer. I drift out of the kitchen and head down the hall toward Michael’s office. Maybe he’s done and finishing up some paperwork. The hallway stretches out in front of me. The lights are lower here, spaced farther apart, leaving long shadows between them. My footsteps carry a little more here.

Light spills out from under the door as I approach. I don’t hear any voices. He’s probably sitting at his desk, head down, pen in hand, flipping through papers and squinting like he always does. He probably has his reading glasses sitting low on his nose, looking cute as hell. I don’t understand how a man with that many tattoos can look like such a nerd the second he puts on glasses, but he’s a sexy nerd. I picture the way he leans forward, brow pulls together when he’s focused, and how he doesn’t notice anything else when he’s working.