breaks, just like I did in the diner a few hours ago. The rain falls freely from the heavens and hammers on my living room window. I glance up at the sudden downpour, then turn back to the television.
I swapped out The Notebook for a Friends re-run. The canned laughter echoes off my bare walls, but I’ve never really found Joey walking around with a turkey stuck to his head very funny. I’m not really watching, anyway; I’m just wasting time until Matt finishes hockey practice. Partly so I can eat all the left-over pizza in his apartment, and partly because I’m dying to rip the shit out of him for squealing like a little bitch when Rafe pointed a gun in his face.
Rafe.
There’s been a twinge in my chest every time I’ve thought of him today. I guess it’s what uncertainty feels like. When I screamed him out of my apartment this morning, I kicked the ball into his court. It’s up to him what he does with it now, if anything at all.
I absentmindedly brush my fingers over my necklace. I can’t believe the woman who gave it to me was his mother. Now, my memory of her in that dark alley is tinted rose pink. She’s not a nameless guardian angel, but Maria Visconti: the woman who gave birth to the man I’m ridiculously in love with.
But still, it’s not enough.
Sure, my heart wants to dance to the tune of stars aligning, but my head is bitter with betrayal. A man fucking me over is a song all-too familiar, and I’m not able to let it go so easily.
I know it’s only been a few hours, but I haven’t heard a peep from Rafe yet. The closest I’ve had to contact is coming home and finding I have a new front door. I wish he’d replaced my sofa while he was at it; I’m currently sitting on a cushion on the floor because my Craigslist purchase lies in tatters behind me.
Late afternoon bleeds into night, the time passing to a soundtrack of unrelenting rain and endless health insurance commercials. My ass starts to go numb, and as I rise to stretch out my stiff limbs, there’s a sharp knock on the front door.
About time. I pad down the hall, stomach grumbling at the thought of cold pizza. But when I open the door, my heart leaps a few inches, then beats a little faster.
It’s not Matt, but Rafe.
He’s all sharp suit and suave silhouette, looking down at my welcome mat in amusement.
“It’s not even a funny pun.”
I can only stare at him. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze climbs my sweats and traps me. “I’m groveling.”
I blink. “Groveling?”
“Mm.” He produces a bouquet from behind his back. “Grovels start with flowers.” I frown at the roses in his hands. They’re blood red and confusing. Rafe takes advantage of my disbelief by sliding me to the side and strolling into my apartment. “According to Google, anyway,” he continues, before disappearing into my kitchen. “But Google also thinks I’m thirty-eight and own a Rottweiler named Cookie, so who really knows?”
I follow him in and hover awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. He sets the roses down and opens cupboards and drawers like he owns the place. “Do you have a vase?”
“What?”
He glances at me, amused. “For the flowers.”
“Um, no?”
“Figures. A jug?” He surveys my off-white counters, squinting in displeasure. “A bong?”
His passive-aggressive dig at my apartment brings me back to my senses. “I have a trash can you can use. You can throw yourself in it too, if you’d like.”
With a smirk, he twists my Nutribullet off its stand and brings it to the sink. He palms the counter as he waits for the tap to run cold, then puts the smoothie-glass under it. “Go get dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
He glances back at me. “Not for dinner, you’re not.”
“I’ve had dinner,” I lie.
In the reflection of the window, I see his jaw tighten. “I’m sure you’ll fit in another.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
He practically punches the tap off. “Baby, I’m calling you a girl who eats two dinners every single night. That’s just a fact. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” He turns, leans against the sink, and studies me. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
My throat dries up, and I shake my head slowly. “You don’t deserve easy.”
We stare at each other, rain hammering glass the only sound filling my kitchen. Then his chest caves as he lets out a tense breath. “Come here.”
I don’t move. First of all, why the fuck should I? He’s got legs too. Second of all, “come here” means I have to go ‘“over there” and “there” is where bad decisions are made. External factors, like his hot hands that know exactly where to touch me, make all rationale bleed out of my brain.
I’m safer over here.
I’ve got a higher chance of keeping my panties on over here.
With a sharp hiss, he pushes himself off the counter and stalks toward me. I retreat for two steps but I’m not quick enough to dodge his reach. He pulls me into his orbit and carries me over to a counter, sliding my ass back on the surface. I struggle to jump down, but he steps between my legs and cages me in.
He stares down at where his hands grip my thighs. “I’m trying to make it up to you. Trying to show you how much I care about you.” His eyes lift to mine, soft and tinged with something that doesn’t suit him. Desperation. “I’m groveling, Queenie. But you need to let me.”
My heartbeat slows, as if dunked into syrup. The butterflies in my stomach take flight, but it feels like they’ve come out of hibernation too early. I’m still too bitter and hurt to take his promise at face value, which I guess is why my next words slip out of my mouth.
“Say please.”
His gaze darkens. “Please what?”
“Ask me out to dinner, but say please.”
His nostrils flare, and by the way he glances at the ceiling, I know he’s wondering if I’m worth the humiliation. But then his stare falls back to mine, his jaw tight. “Penny, would you do me the honor of letting me take you out for dinner?” He grits his teeth. “Please?”
Despite not being able to decide whether I want to claw his eyeballs out or not, pleasure skates down my spine. I think I enjoy it when that word slips from Rafe’s lips. “Hmm,” I muse, leaning back on my palms and pretending to weigh up my options. “Are you paying?”
He laughs. “What kind of question is that?”
“Will there be dessert?”
“Of course.”
“Can I have two?”
“You can have anything you like.”
I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “I don’t know. I have other options—”
“Your only other option is getting bent over my knee and spanked,” he snaps, dragging his hand off my thigh and reaching for his belt buckle. “You can have two of those, too.”
“All right, all right,” I squeal, wriggling out of his grip. “I suppose I have time for dinner. I’m not changing my clothes, though.”
He sweeps a look of disbelief over my gray sweatpants, hoodie, and messy bun. “It’s a nice restaurant.”
“Are you saying I don’t look nice?”
He pauses, then flashes me a plastic smile. “You’d look beautiful in a potato sack,” he says insincerely. He hoists me off the counter and sets me on my feet. “Come on.”
Less than five minutes later, we’re crossing the road under the shelter of Rafe’s umbrella, his men trailing our shadows. Excitement hums under my skin, and there’s a reckless taste on my tongue. Maybe I’m a sadist, but I love the idea of Rafe groveling. It feels like the ultimate game, and it’s one I get to set the rules for. Hell, I don’t know if he’ll win or not, but I’m sure as shit going to put him through his paces to find out.
He holds the passenger side door open for me. I glance at his men getting into the convoy of sedans behind. There’s more of them than usual, and there’s not a single face I recognize. Then I remember Rafe saying something about Griffin trying to kill him, and shudder.
That would explain the sudden change in lackeys.
The moment I slide onto the seat, my excitement sours. The smell of warm leather entwined with Rafe’s cologne. The way the backrest perfectly hugs my hips. My slippers are still sitting in the foot well. The familiarity that lives between these four vehicle walls punches me in the gut.
Rafe must sense the switch in my mood when he slides into the driver’s seat, because he tenses. There’s a click-thud as he locks my door. “You’re not changing your mind. I already said please.”
I stare at his profile, emotion swelling in my throat. “Why are you bothering?”
His gaze is lazy, trained on the windshield as he pulls out onto the road. “Because I love you,” he says simply.
Another hit to my gut, but this one feels more like a jack knife. Because I love you. Even though they were said so flippantly, so indifferently, his words ricochet around the car and deafen me. Despite suddenly struggling to breathe, I manage to shake my head.
I understand how and why I love him, despite hating him with a passion. But that’s because I didn’t rip myself away from him. He chose to tear us apart with a million-dollar check and a confession.
And despite his betrayal, I can understand his reasoning.
“But I’m unlucky,” I blurt out, thinking about his blood trickling over his abs and swirling down the shower drain. I still don’t even know what happened to him, just that it was yet another notch on his belt of bad fortune. “You’ll be unlucky for the rest of your life.”
He changes lanes, then steals a glance at the silver chain disappearing under the collar of my hoodie. “I’m trying to take my mama’s advice.”
“Which was?”
“Luck is believing you’re lucky,” he says. “That’s what she said to you, right?”
My heart clenches at the memory, and I can only nod.
“So from now on, I’m believing I’m lucky.” His hand slides over my thigh and floods warmth through my core. “I’m lucky that you let me take you out on a date, aren’t I?”
He chuckles when I swat his hand away. Touching leads to fucking, and fucking leads to me saying silly shit I shouldn’t, like, I love you, too.
As we turn off of Main Street and climb the hill up to the church, there’s a sudden, sharp crack.
I scream. Rafe swerves the wheel with one hand, while the other flies across my stomach and cages me into the seat. I open my eyes as we roll to stop between the trees.
Rafe flicks on the interior light and grips my chin, eyes scanning me. “You okay?”
“Y-yeah.” I breathe out a shaky exhale, then nod at the windshield. There’s a pebble-sized crater on the right-hand side, and a spider web of cracks fissure out from it.
He glances at it. “Must have been a piece of loose gravel or something,” he mutters insincerely.
“You’re not believing hard enough.”
He runs his thumb over my bottom lip and gives me a humorless smirk.
“It’s a work in progress, Queenie.”
After swapping out Rafe’s G-Wagon for one of the sedans driving up our ass, we end up in Hollow. A lift takes us closer to sea-level, and when we step out of it, I have the urge to turn around and smack my head against its closing doors.
Dammit. This restaurant is fancy. The type that has too many forks on either side of the plate, and not enough food on top of it. The type you don’t wear sweatpants and a milkshake-stained hoodie to.
I wish I wasn’t so damn stubborn.
Rafe palms the small of my back and pushes me into the main cavern, where a server rushes over to greet us. “Mr. Visconti, Mrs. Visconti,” she says, nodding at us politely. She makes more pleasantries but they swim around my ears, wobbly and incoherent. Mrs. Visconti?
As Rafe’s hand finds my back again and guides me to a table, I glare up at his profile. “Why does she think we’re married?”
His dimple deepens. “Because I told her we were.”
“What? Why?”
He doesn’t reply until he’s sliding a chair underneath me. Then he lowers his lips to the soft bit behind my ear and whispers his answer against it. “Because I felt like playing our favorite game.” He plants a kiss on my neck. It’s so gentle, but it racks my insides like an earthquake. “Make believe.”
Stupefied, my eyes track him as he rounds the table and sits opposite me. There’s a flurry of servers with smiles and napkins and leather-bound menus, but how can I focus on trivial things like the daily specials, at a time like this?
Once we’re left alone, Rafe’s gaze heats on mine. I break away from it for safety purposes, and do a survey of the space.
The cave is hauntingly beautiful. A small, oval room with minimal human touch. There are only six tables, all empty except ours, and all are cut from rock. The bar is, too—nothing more than a craggy ledge jutting out from the far wall, with enough room to show off special edition Smuggler’s Club bottles in a back-lit case.
My gaze sweeps upward to the ceiling. It looks like it’s dripping. Each icicle-shaped rock is wrapped with fine fairy lights, dousing the cave in a romantic glow.
“Stalagmites,” Rafe says, watching me. “Produced by precipitation of minerals from water dripping through the cave ceiling.”
“Stalactites.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Stalagmites rise up from the floor, stalactites hang from the ceiling.” Rubbing my sweaty palms on my joggers, I add, “You bought me Petrology for Dummies.”
His laugh is beautiful and drives into my chest like a key, unlocking memories of other times I’ve made him laugh like that. I harden my jaw and shoo them away.
“Of course.” He waves a careless hand around him. “Well, do you like it?”
“Did your other dates like it?”
Irritation moves across his face like a shadow. “You’re the first woman I’ve taken here.” His attention drops to my lips, and he licks his own. “You’ll be the last, too.”
I try to keep my breathing steady. Try not to fall for his charm. It’s crazy how easily I saw through it when we first met, yet now it mists my vision and threatens to veer me off track.
I run my finger over the embroidered border of the napkin, ignoring the weight of his stare. “So, you’re back to playing the perfect gentleman.”
“Would you prefer it if I wasn’t a gentleman, Penny?”
I slide my gaze up to his, just as a server appears at our table.
“May I suggest a wine pairing for your meal?” she asks.
Rafe’s eyes never leave mine. “Fuck off, Julia.”
I don’t know who the gasp comes from, me, Julia, or both of us, but when she scurries away, embarrassment heats my cheeks.
“That was fucking rude.”
Rafe is the dictionary definition of unfazed. He acts like he hasn’t heard me, then tightens his cufflinks and leans into the light of the flickering candle between us.
“Would you like to know a secret, Queenie?”
“No.” Yes.
He abruptly reaches around the table, then there’s a sickening scraping noise as he drags my chair over the limestone floor so I’m sitting right next to him.
I stare down at our thighs touching. My soft sweats beside his sharp slacks. Tatty to his suave. My next breath stutters. Fuck, how I want to hate this man.
His familiar scent weakens me as he snakes his arm over the back of my chair and brushes his lips against my temple.
“You were right all along.”
“About what?” I breathe out.
“About me pretending to be a gentleman.” The backs of his knuckles graze over the nape of my neck, raising all the goosebumps there. “But only to other women, never you. There’s never been any pretense with you, Penny. When you talk, I listen because I enjoy what you have to say. When I fuck you from behind, it’s because I know I also have the privilege of fucking you face-on. And when you leave my bed, I can’t bear the thought of it being forever.”
I can’t do anything but stare down at our legs touching. I fear if I move, the burning behind my eyeballs will morph into something more. I’m torn, ripped right down the fucking middle. Half of me wants to scream at him some more, the other half urges me to tilt my chin and kiss him, if only to taste the confession that just came out of his mouth.
I do neither of these things. Can’t. I only stare at our legs until another server comes over in place of Julia and timidly asks us about wine pairings again.
The drive home is cushioned by Nappa leather and the familiar purr of the engine. Rafe’s windshield had been fixed by the time I finished my third desert, and I kind of wish it hadn’t. There’s no way I’d be so close to dozing off if I were in a stranger’s sedan, even if Rafe was driving it.
I’m full of food, wine, and contentment, and my lids grow heavier with every passing streetlight. I’m not so far gone that I don’t notice Rafe glance at me then turn down the radio and turn up my heated seat.
He’s transparent. I know he thinks if it’s warm enough, and if he’s quiet enough, I’ll fall asleep, just like old times.
The night has been tinged with a hopeful glow. Despite my best efforts, I’ve laughed a lot tonight. Felt things in my chest and between my thighs that I wish I didn’t. Christ, it’d be so easy to fall asleep here and wake up in the morning to Rafe stroking my forehead, but I have way too much pride and bitterness inside me, and he still has so much to prove.
Squinting through the windshield, I take stock of where we are. In less than a minute or so, we’ll be pulling up outside my apartment. But then the turn for Main Street passes on the left and I roll my head to look at Rafe. “You’re going the wrong way.” When I’m met with silence, my stomach clenches. “Hey, where are we going?”
Rafe’s knuckles tighten on the wheel, at odds with his indifferent tone. “Home.”
“My home is back that way.”
He speeds up, ignoring me.
“Rafe,” I say as calmly as I can muster, “Turn around.”
“The yacht’s ready.”
“Turn the car around!”
Cursing in Italian, he swings into a pull-off. The engine cuts out, plunging us into tense silence.
He drops his head against the headrest. Runs a hand over his throat. “I groveled,” he says quietly. “Now. Come. Home.”
I stare at his sharp profile, watching the muscle in his jaw twitch. “You groveled for three hours and twenty minutes.”
He rolls his head and pins me with a soft look. “You still hate me, Queenie?”
Despite my throat being thick with the truth, I nod.
He thinks for a moment, then gives a careless shrug and reaches for the ignition. “Hate me on the boat, then.”
“I’ll hate you from my apartment.”
“Or, you can sleep in the car—”
“Rafe.”
Something about my tone cuts him off. He glares out the windshield for the longest time before giving a tight nod and driving me home in silence.
By the time he parks in his signature asshole way outside my apartment, his annoyance has softened. He shifts in his seat to study me, eyes sparkling. “Invite me up for coffee, at least.”
I laugh. “No chance.”
He smiles, reaching out to play with a lock of my hair. “You probably only have that instant shit, anyway.”
I’m about to tell him I don’t even have ‘that instant shit’—there are no drinks in my apartment besides tap water and a multi-pack of orange soda—but then his focus move to my mouth. The car heats, and the topic of coffee is suddenly irrelevant.
His grip on my hair tightens. “I’m getting a goodnight kiss, and that’s non-negotiable.”
I sigh, resisting the urge to twist my face into his palm. It’d be so easy to kiss him. To let his hands roam where they want, then let them yank me into the back seat when the sexual tension spills over.
“It’ll cost you.”
He shakes his head in amusement. “I already paid you a million bucks when I lost the bet. Surely that’ll cover all kisses in this lifetime?”
A hot venom whips through me at the mention of the check. “We both know you didn’t pay me because you lost the bet.”
My heart thumps, echoing in the silence. The memory of waking up to an empty bed strips my throat raw. Fuck, how will I ever not feel sick when I think of it? Rafe can buy me roses I don’t know how to care for and let me eat three deserts on his dime, but how will I ever forgive him for paying me to go away? For only admitting he owns Sinners Anonymous in the hope it would seal my decision to leave?
Rafe frowns, sensing the shift in mood, then realization softens his brow as he skims his thumb over my cheekbone. “Fine, how much?”
“Fifty bucks.”
He laughs, tossing his wallet on my lap. “Sold.”
As he leans in, I press my hand against his chest. “I meant a hundred!”
“Jesus. For a hundred, I want some tongue action.”
Before I can negotiate, his fingers slide up to my skull and draw me in. His lips touch mine, as soft as a whisper in the wind. It’s the lightest brush, but it cracks open my core, leaving me hollow and desperate for more.
Fuck it. He paid, right?
I grip his jaw and pull his lips harder against mine. His growl of approval vibrates against my mouth, and I slide my tongue over his to taste it. He sucks on my bottom lip, glancing up at me with half-lidded, dangerous eyes as he releases it from his mouth with a visceral pop.
Fuck. The sound is a carnal sin, and the way it heats my blood only makes me want to hear it again. I chase his retreat, kissing him more violently. Each kiss hotter and wetter, each frictionless touch of our tongues steaming up the windows a little more.
I’m so lost in his taste that I barely notice his palm burning a path up the side of my thigh until he’s tugging at my waistband. As the air touches my hip, sudden clarity grips me.
I swat him away and press my back against the door. He lunges for me again, but I bring my foot up on the central console, my knee creating a physical barrier between us. “Enough,” I gasp, wiping his taste off my lips with the back of my hand.
His eyes are black and hungry as they climb down my hoodie and watch my chest rising and falling. “How much to kiss your other lips?”
Despite him being deadly serious and the thought making my clit thump, I huff out a laugh. “No more. Goodnight, Rafe. Thank you for dinner.”
He groans, dropping his chin to my knee. “Don’t be such a stubborn little shit. At least sleep in the car.” I shake my head, awkwardly reaching down for my bag. “Well what else are you going to do?” He glances up at my living room window like it’s his worst enemy. “You won’t sleep. You gonna sit and play chess with the roaches all night?”
No, I’m going to touch myself to the thought of where this would have gone if I were weaker-willed, then pretend to watch twenty episodes of Friends, while really obsessing over each detail of the night.
Of course, I don’t tell him that. I don’t rise to his insult about my apartment, either. “Sounds like the perfect night in.”
“I’ll be parked out here all night, in case you change your mind.”
I twist around and pop my door open. As the cool air whooshes in and bites me, Rafe’s hand grips my wrist. I turn around, expecting a final plea, but I’m met with a hard set of his jaw.
His eyes search mine, something vulnerable dancing behind his serious expression.
“Just tell me I have a chance, Queenie.” His thumb skims over my pulse. “That’s all I need to know.”
My heart drops off its axis and beats somewhere above my navel. I stare back at him, taking in his brooding stare and every sharp plane of his face.
Emotion threatens to choke me, but I won’t let it. Not in Rafe’s car, anyway. I take what I’m owed from his wallet—plus a little extra for a tip, of course—and toss it into the cup holder.
I stare down at it while I answer his question.
“I told you to choose your route to hell, Rafe,” I say quietly. “It’s not my fault you chose the long way ’round.”
His stare blisters my back as I cross the road and disappear into my apartment building.
