Page 20 of Rent a Mob Boss

His lips are warm and firm, and he tastes like the scotch he was drinking earlier. One of his hands is on my jaw and the other is on my waist, and he kisses me like he’s done it before. Like he’s done it a thousand times, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His mouth on mine in a room full of strangers.

Every single thought in my head goes quiet at once. Every worry, every anxious little voice that’s been chattering since I opened my front door. All of it, gone. Silent.

I’ve imagined this before. I don’t even want to think about how many times, because it’s kind of embarrassing. Nothing in my wildest dreams could’ve prepared me for the reality of being pressed against his firm chest while he grunts softly as he explores my mouth like a man with absolutely nothing better to do. My body goes warm before turning hot, like hot enough to melt me where I stand because, my god, does the man know how to kiss.

I don’t decide to raise my arms and link them around his neck. It just happens. It happens the way I breathe, and now I’m pulling him closer, and he lets me. The kiss deepens, and I forget we’re in a room with people; I forget Aaron exists. I’m pretty sure I forget my own middle name.

Until someone clears their throat.

It’s a very specific type of throat-clearing that’s been honed over decades. It carries within it the full weight of seventy-eight years of Catholic disapproval.

I pull back. So does Dorian. We both turn. My grandmother is standing three feet away in a lavender dress and pearls, holding a martini, looking at us over the rim of her glasses the way a librarian looks at someone who’s been talking too loud.

“Grandma,” I say. Okay, it’s more like I’m panting. As if I just finished a marathon.

“Quinn.” She looks at Dorian, then back at me. After taking a sip of her martini, she continues, “Introduce me to your friend, dear. The one who was eating your face.”

“This is Dorian. He’s my… he is…”

“I gathered.” Another sip. “Young man, are you aware that you’re in a room with her entire family?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dorian’s voice is much steadier than my legs are right now. “I apologize for the display. I got carried away.”

“Clearly.” But something in her face sort of flickers. Like a tiny crack in her disapproval. She pats his arm. “At least you have good taste.”

She walks away, and I stare after her while Dorian takes a drink. “I like her,” he decides.

“Everyone likes her,” I murmur. “She’s terrifying.”

Dinner is a four-course ambush. My parents have seated us at the family table, and Mom starts before the salad is placed in front of us. “So, Dorian. What is it you do?”

“I run a private investment firm.” He says it the way you say anything that’s been true for so long it’s boring. “Mostly acquisitions. Some asset management.”

“And how did you two meet?” Dad asks. He’s been using his interview voice on men since Alyssa brought home her first boyfriend in ninth grade. He has a system.

“Quinn takes care of my daughter,” Dorian explains. “Lillie is five. Quinn started with us about six months ago, and I’ve spent most of that time trying to convince her to call me by my first name.”

He looks at me, and the look is so warm, so real, that for a second, I forget it’s an act. “It took a while. She’s stubborn.”

“She is,” Mom agrees. “She gets it from her father.”

“I was going to say she gets it from you, dear,” Dad murmurs. The table laughs, and the conversation moves on, and Dorian navigates all of it with the kind of ease that should make me feel relieved but instead makes me a little nervous, because the lies are coming out of him so smoothly. He’s telling my parents what they want to hear, and they’re buying it, and he’s doing all of it without breaking a sweat.

He’s very good at pretending.

Things take a turn during the main course, because Aunt Linda has had three glasses of wine and believes family gatherings are performance art. “Quinn,” she announces, loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear. “Quinn, honey, does Dorian know about the recital?”

No. No, no, no. “Aunt Linda⁠—”

“She was eleven,” Aunt Linda tells Dorian, leaning across Mom with the intense focus of the truly committed storyteller. “Decided she was going to sing at the talent show. Nobody told her she couldn’t sing, which was the first mistake.”

“I could sing,” I protest weakly.

“Honey, you sang ‘My Heart Will Go On’ in the key of pain.” Aunt Linda pats my hand. “She got through the first verse, and the microphone started feeding back. Instead of stopping, she just sang louder. By the end of it, the principal was crying, and not in a good way.”

The table is laughing. Dorian is doing the thing with the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile. I drain my champagne glass and signal for another one.

By the time dessert arrives, I’ve had enough champagne to enter what I think of as the Warm Zone. I’m not drunk, not even close, but the edges of everything have gone soft and golden. The nervous energy that’s been sitting in my stomach all night has melted into something looser. Braver.