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He continues, oblivious to my seething. “It wasn’t love at first sight for them. It was more like love, then hate, then love.” He pauses to take a sip of his drink, then sets the glass down on the table. “Leo didn’t mind. The make-up sex made it worth it.”
Yes, Maria mentioned the rollercoaster of a sex life between her and her husband; nothing for weeks after a fight, then a sudden explosive re-coupling that ended in hours of lovemaking.
“I told Leo he needed to hurry up and put a ring on Maria’s finger because no other woman was going to put up with his bullshit.”
“It sounds like you cared a great deal about your friend.”
Nico arches an eyebrow, a gesture I’m coming to recognize as his go-to. “Because I goaded him into strapping a ball and chain around his ankle?”
I pause, considering my response while trying to ignore the flutter of excitement low in my belly at the prospect of navigating the layers of Nico’s psyche. I tell myself it’s professional curiosity.
“It’s not so much what you said, Mr. Vitelli, as how you said it and the subtle changes in your body language when you did.”
He sits up straighter, his brows furrowing. I don’t think he likes me being able to read him.
Still, I continue, “Do you feel responsible for Maria because you pushed Leo into marrying her or because you feel guilty about his death?”
A shadow of annoyance flickers across his face, and then something shifts in his gaze, turning it scorching hot as he slowly sweeps over me. From the tips of my black pumps, along the curve of my pencil skirt, to the delicate folds of my white silk shirt. Finally, his gaze lands on my face, and I’m willing with every last ounce of energy not to blush.
He murmurs, “Feeling responsible for Maria led me here, as a plus one, to the funeral of a man I don’t know, with a gorgeous woman who has a fuck-off sign all over her. A sign that I’d very much like to tear off.”
He continues to stare at me even after I lose the battle and my face flushes. It’s not what he said so much as the way he said it. It sounded way, way dirtier, conjuring images of ripped clothing and sweaty skin and tangled limbs. I look away and take a deep breath as my brain scrambles and a throbbing begins in my core. I grit my teeth, willing it to stop.
We both know what he just did there. I hit a nerve, one that’s raw and deep. He shut down, deflected and effectively turned the game on me, playing me like a fiddle with his words.
When he gets bored of watching me squirm, he takes his drink and leaves, moving to the opposite side. If I had any doubts about Nico’s aversion to opening up, what happened just now laid them to rest.
Sufficiently chastised, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The last thing the man wants is therapy. And he is right about one thing. One of us is wearing a giant fuck-off sign. But it’s not me, it’s Nico Vitelli.
Chapter Seven
Nico
The rest of the four-hour flight to Carlsbad goes without a hitch. Meaning, no more probing questions, thankfully. Not even half an hour with her, and she was already gleefully slicing me open with her words. It only made me want to retaliate, but physically. I want her naked and squirming while I drive her mad with my mouth. And from the pink flush in her skin, she wanted me too.
The flush that I notice as she passes by me to disembark the plane, is still on her skin.
For fuck’s sake, has she got me on replay in her head or something?
Sophie refused to give any more details about her home apart from saying it’s half an hour from Carlsbad airport, so of course, she drives while I sit stiffly in the passenger seat of the rented Impala. Apparently, the Mercedes I had waiting for us ‘isn’t an option.’ Again, she refused to elaborate further.
The moment we touched down, something about her demeanor changed. It was like she’d stepped out of a bustling street and into her own backyard. She seemed less tense, her limbs looser, and with a bit more sway to her hips. Sexier. As if that were even possible.
As she slowly maneuvers through the sparse traffic, silence stretches between us, yet neither of us feels inclined to break it. It seems we don’t do very well with small talk, as previous attempts have often led Sophie to wield her sharp wit, prompting a visceral need in me to make it stop.
So instead, I pull out my phone to catch up on updates from Dante.
Merely ten minutes after leaving the airport, Sophie drives into an old shopping mall's parking lot, choosing a spot among the many empty ones.
“Feeling the urge to shop?” My question hangs in the air as she switches off the engine and steps out of the car.
I follow her out onto the side, where she stops for a moment and looks me over from head to toe, an assessing light in her eyes. “I’m afraid you need to change, Mr Vitelli,” she states, her tone suggesting it’s non-negotiable.
Why the hell does she insist on calling me that?
I gesture to my all-black ensemble. “I’d say this is rather fitting for a funeral.”
“Yeah, if you want to stick out like a sore thumb,” she retorts with a hint of impatience. “You’re welcome to wait here, but I need a change of clothes myself.”
