with the sound of crunching and cogs whirring. Nico crams another handful of chips in his mouth and chews thoughtfully.
“He’s card counting.”
“He’s too stupid to card count.”
More crunching. We’ve been studying who we’ve dubbed ‘red shirt dude’ on the monitor for three-quarters of an hour, and we’re still no closer to agreeing on whether he’s a cheat or not.
Nico swipes his feet off the desk and taps the keyboard, zooming in on him. “Look at his lips moving, Pen. He’s counting.”
“He could be saying anything. Humming the National Anthem, reciting his favorite Bible verse. Only beginners count aloud.”
He glances at me in disbelief. “You really wanna win that fifty bucks, huh?”
I laugh. “Sure do.”
As we fall into an easy silence, a burst of happiness spreads through my chest. I love coming into work. Not only do I get the thrill of swindling-by-proxy, but I get to hang out with Nico. Sitting here, eating snacks and talking shit, it feels like we’re kids hiding in the coat room of the Visconti Grand again.
Nico cracks open the heart-shaped box of chocolates I bought him. It’s not the usual type of snack I bring into work for us, but it is Valentine’s Day, after all.
“Got a hot date after work, then?”
He huffs quietly, like my question isn’t worth an answer. “Unfortunately, you’re the only girl in my life, Little P.”
“Jeez, that’s sad.”
“No sadder than you actually having a Valentine, and coming into work, anyway.”
His words make my chest constrict, but a deep breath and a few rational thoughts put me back rights. I’ve come into work as usual, because neither Rafe nor I have brought up the holiday in conversation.
I don’t know. We’ve been in this weird-yet-perfect limbo that doesn’t have a name or a rule book. Everything shifted about two weeks ago, after the night he took me to the church. Something about him opening up has made me more relaxed and a lot less bitter. We’ve swapped fine dining for the diner, and my couture dressers for pajamas. I don’t torture myself by heading upstairs to my apartment after our dates and curtain twitching all night, either. I sleep in his car, and sometimes, when his goodnight kiss breaks my resolve, I even invite him upstairs to fuck.
Okay, all of the time.
“Valentine’s Day is just a money-making scam, anyway,” I mutter. As the holiday drew closer, Rafe’s radio silence on the matter made me a little uncomfortable. I guess there’s no point celebrating, anyway. We do go on dates every single night, and I did tell him to stop buying me gifts. Besides, apart from Rafe insisting every restaurant worker call me Mrs. Visconti, we haven’t put a label on what we are yet.
Nico gives me a patronizing pat on the shoulder. “Well, we can both be lonely losers together.”
I smile to myself. Nico’s always been here for me, done things he’s never had to. I suddenly remember something that’s been playing on the back of my mind. Something I need to ask him. My smile fades and my palms grow sweaty.
“Nico?” He glances at me sideways. “My parents never had some off-shore bank account with enough money to buy an apartment, did they?”
He stills, a heart-shaped chocolate halfway to his mouth. “How would I know the state of your family’s finances?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
He’s so transparent, tilting his head from side-to-side as he weighs up the pros and cons of telling me the truth. “It was my college fund,” he says quietly.
The sharpest of knives twists in my chest. “Nico—”
“Shh,” he grunts, tapping on the keyboard and bringing up random camera screens with the pretense of studying them. “You did me a favor. I actually had to work in school to maintain a scholarship. And that, Little P, is why I’m so smart today.”
The backs of my eyes burn at the thought of a teenage Nico emptying his trust-fund for me. “Thank you” will never be enough.
“Do you two actually get any work done, or do you just sit around and gossip all night?”
The voice that slides in from the door behind us is pure silk, but it still makes me jump. I turn to see Rafe leaning against the door frame, all sharp suit and smirk. His eyes lock on mine, and he winks.
My throat squeezes. Fuck, he’s breathtakingly handsome, even in the low lighting of the office. I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point where I look at him and don’t have a visceral reaction. If one day, my head won’t swim and my cheeks won’t heat when he walks into a room.
I mutter a weak greeting, then clear my throat and turn back to the monitors. Out the corner of my eye, Nico rolls his eyes.
“Are you here to steal Penny, or to give me a lecture?” Nico asks Rafe, holding out the chocolate box to him as he approaches.
He looks down at it in amusement, and shakes his head. “I think I’ve given you enough lectures, cugino.”
Rafe has made it very clear that he disapproves of me working here. It took me longer than it should have to realize The Grotto isn’t a regular casino. All the patrons on the other side of the cameras haven’t been invited to play here because of their social status or net worth. They’re here because they’ve all been suspected of cheating in other casinos across Hollow and Cove. Turns out, some of them are super dangerous, and Rafe hates that there’s little more than a craggy wall and a hallway separating them from me.
But he doesn’t need to sweat it. Not only could I probably throw a mean punch if I really had to, but I know Nico can handle these men. While he might be calm in the office, indulging me in games, like seeing how many marshmallows he can fit in his mouth, I’ve seen what happens when he snaps on those leather gloves and strolls out the door.
He’s a quiet beast.
Rafe’s warmth crackles against my back. His hands come down on either side of my soda can and cage me in, sparking mini fireworks in my stomach.
“Ready to go, Queenie?”
“Go where?” Nico asks. “Her shift doesn’t finish for another hour.”
“Not tonight, it doesn’t.”
Nico’s gaze slides to mine, amused and cynical. “Oh, the power of nepotism.”
I say my goodbyes and meet Rafe at the elevator. He’s got my coat slung over one arm, and is watching me with a certain heat as I walk toward him.
“Yes?”
He doesn’t say anything until the doors ding. He steps aside to let me in, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the mirrored doors slide shut. The moment the elevator jerks to life, he glances at my distorted reflection, then suddenly presses his palm into my stomach and pushes me against the wall. His mouth captures my gasp, and his rough grip on my throat keeps me in place.
He steals a deeper kiss. Nips at my bottom lip. I’m melting under his wet mouth and burning under his hot hand as it slides up my inner thigh and cups my pussy so hard that I’m brought to my tip-toes.
The elevator slows to a stop. His tongue skims up my neck and flicks against my ear. “Been dying to do that all day,” he murmurs, giving my mound another squeeze before pulling himself away from me.
I’m high off his touch and breathless from how quick he ripped it away from me. The elevator doors slide open and the bitter February air pours in. Rafe smooths down his shirt and grabs my hand, stepping out into the night as the perfect gentleman.
By the time we reach his car, I’m buzzing with excitement. He didn’t forget. My mind races with all the possibilities the night holds. A romantic walk on the beach in Cove, a private dinner in the back room of a fancy restaurant. He’s probably made an exception for my no-gifts request, too. But my mood dampens around the edges when I twist around and see no beautifully-wrapped box on the backseat.
There’s nothing in the glove compartment, either.
Rafe starts the engine and looks over at me. “Looking for something?”
My mouth moves before I can stop it. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” I blurt out.
He rests his elbow on the center console, rubbing at his smirk. “Is it? Burger’s on me then, I suppose.”
My cheeks burn. They’re always on you, asshole. But I don’t say that. Instead, I steel my jaw and glare at the falling sleet dancing in the headlights. Surprisingly, my annoyance melts quicker than the ice landing on the car’s heated glass. Maybe it’s Rafe’s thumb rubbing circles on my thigh, or the fact he remembers to get me extra ketchup when he collects our order from the diner.
Warmth floods my stomach and blooms outward, heating my heart. This is what I want. Not the gifts or the money, but this. This comfort, this stability, this love. It’s everything this man gives me, every single day without fail. I’m suddenly so full it that by the time we’re climbing the hill to the church, I have a soppy grin on my face.
Rafe’s gaze meets mine, confused. “Fuck you looking at me like that for, Queenie?” He sweeps the horizon, as if looking for another billboard with his face on it. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing.” I bite my lip. For some reason, the word love has lingered, and now it’s bubbling on the tip of my tongue. I’m trying my hardest not to let it slip out.
Rafe’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and I feel the urge to throw him a bone, at least. I slide my hand over his and bring his knuckles to my lips. “I’m just happy; that’s all.”
His expression softens. He watches me rub my mouth over his hand, and gives a small noise of approval. “Want to know a secret?” he whispers, uncurling his palm against my cheek and swiping my bottom lip with his thumb. A shudder of excitement rolls through me: every time he asks me that question, I always like what follows it.
I nod.
“I didn’t forget it’s Valentine’s Day.” His hand skims down my side and squeezes my hip. “Come here.”
I frown. “Where?”
He reaches down and slides his chair all the way back. He pats his thigh. “Here. And don’t say there’s no room. If there’s room for you to shake your ass in my face, there’s room for you to sit on my lap.”
With a slight tremble that I always get when I’m about to enter Rafe’s orbit, I unclick my seat belt and let him tug me onto his lap. I let out a shaky breath, resisting the urge to melt into his chest and drink in his soothing scent.
He presses a light kiss to my temple, reaches into the side door pocket, and drops something on my lap. It’s the weight of a money stack, but when I look down, I see it’s a perfectly wrapped rectangle.
“What is it?”
His chest rumbles against my back. “You’d find out if you opened it.” I rub my sweaty palms over my thighs and gingerly tug at the ribbon. Rafe lets out an impatient huff. “Jeez, Penny, it’s not a bomb—just open it.”
“All right, all right.”
I peel away the wrapping and squint down at it. It’s a book of some sort. When Rafe reaches up to click on the overhead light, an orange glow spreads through the car, and I realize it isn’t just any book.
It’s bound in mustard-yellow leather with a title embossed on the cover.
Penelope Price for Dummies.
My throat grows thick. “What is this?”
Rafe doesn’t reply, instead, he slides his arm through mine and gently opens the cover to the front page. I read what’s printed on the thick, cream paper:
Penelope Price in Numbers
Height: Comes up to the third button of my shirt. Reaches the second button in heels
Weight: Perfect
Age: I try not to think about it
Alias: Queenie, Little Shit, Brat, Good Girl (note: this is rare; she’s never good)
I choke out a laugh, the backs of my eyes burning. The next page is titled: If Penny Goes Missing. Underneath, there’s my fingerprint, a small lock of red hair, and a piece of tissue with a kiss print on it. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the tissue I left in his private bathroom the very first time he let me use it.
“You kept it?” I murmur, running my finger over it.
He huffs out a quiet laugh and rests his chin on my shoulder. “You’re more concerned about the tissue than how I got a lock of your hair?”
When I laugh again, it comes out as a weird sob. “Yeah, that’s weird as shit too,” I squeak.
The next page is all my favorite things. Recipes for a passion fruit martini and for the breakfast he made me every morning on the yacht. My regular order from the diner, the films I love, the songs I listen to on repeat. Some he’d have learned from listening to my calls to Sinners Anonymous, others from just listening to me.
I pour over page after page. My hobbies and dreams. My well-worn expressions, my clothing style. By the time I reach the final page, tears are streaming down my cheeks.
“Why?” It’s all I can manage.
Rafe turns me to look at him and kisses a tear before it drips off my chin. “You know the answer,” he whispers against my jaw.
Because he loves me.
And there’s no doubt in my mind that I love him too.
“Look at me.” Through blurry eyes, I meet his soft, green gaze. “I’m your hotline now, Queenie. All your mundane thoughts, all your ramblings: they’re mine. I want them all, no matter how trivial. Do you understand me?”
I can only nod.
“Good,” he murmurs. He swallows hard, frowning at a tear rolling down my face. “Now stop crying. I don’t like it.”
Without another word, I lean forward and brush my lips against his, claiming his next breath as my own. And then I press my mouth to his and slide my tongue inside. He captures it with his teeth and pulls me closer, running his hand up my spine and gripping the nape of my neck to hold me in place.
I’ll be here forever—I know it. Shackled by his chains, blissful in his cage. For all I care, he can lock me up and throw the key into the Pacific.
I’m in Raphael Visconti’s trap, and I never want to be freed.
