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“It’s a book, it’s meant to be read. Even Dante deserves better than to rot on some rich guy’s vanity shelf.”
I stop halfway through preparing my coffee. “Vanityshelf?”
“Did you google a list of what books to get if you want people to think you’re a mastermind psychopath or something?”
“I’m sorry you find my personal collection lacking,” I tell her as I prepare a black coffee. “I should’ve invested more time into purveying cartoon pornography.”
She doesn’t even have the decency of appearing embarrassed or sheepish. “Might solve a lot of your problems if you had.”
“Are you going to bring up my cock in every conversation we ever have?”
“Any good therapist would tell you it’s at the root of all your issues.”
“What’s at the root of yours, Willow?”
She grins. Despite how burdened she appears to be by pain and exhaustion, her grin is still full of that dangerous glint, like someone flashing a naked blade in a dark alley.
“I don’t have any issues, Luca. I’m the happiest girl in the world.”
I turn around and stride over to the counter where she’s perched. I snatch the half-eaten apple out of her hand, throw it out, and then I squeeze her leg through the bandage. Her entire body jolts with pain.
“Ready to beg for your painkillers, Lynch?”
She laughs, cold and hollow. “You learn that from your dad, Luca? Making people beg for their medicine?”
I’m not unaware of the pharmaceutical controversies surrounding Novus, but I didn’t expect to have them thrown in my face before breakfast. I dig my fingers deeper into Willow’s wounded leg, sending another jolt of pain through her.
“If you’re trying to hurt my feelings, maybe try not stealing your insults straight out of the tabloids.”
She kicks me away from her with her other leg. “I’m not wasting my creativity on you.”
“What creativity? You literally have a tattoo that says ‘tattoo’.”
She lowers herself from the counter, gathering her inexistent dignity about her. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Get out of my kitchen. The sight of your face is spoiling my appetite.”
She leaves with the comeback of the witless: a middle finger jabbed right in front of my face.
By the time Woodrowarrives at the house, the contract has been sent off to my legal team, and Willow’s gone to hers to get her things—or so she says. I sent my driver with her, and I have a couple of people tasked with staying on her heels, but since I know how slippery she can be, I make a mental note to put a tracker on her as soon as possible. If I could have her chipped like one of my dogs, I would.
Woodrow looks around when he enters the large open space of the living room, a slight frown on his solemn face.
“You’ve had guests over, sir?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
“The smell of cigarettes.”
He must have a sharp sense of smell; Willow’s been gone a while.
“Just one guest, Ned.” I throw him a little smile over the top of the paper I was reading when he came in. “Awoman.”
“Congratulations, sir,” Woodrow murmurs soberly, like I’ve just announced that I got a job interview. “Was the encounter to your pleasure?”
I think about Willow’s butchered leg and her scrawled signature on the contract.
“Very much so. You’ll be pleased to hear that I will officially be bringing a date to my mother’s gala in January.”
