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I can only imagine my own reflects that exactly.
Long minutes pass like that as we breathe, exchanging quick pecks and smiling goofily.
“So?” he asks finally.
“So what?” I’m dazed, unsure of what he means, and he knows it.
“What now? What should we do? Your car won’t be ready until tomorrow.” The hand in my hair moves to my cheek, and the warmth of it feels good against my cold skin. “What do you want to do? You’re getting cold.”
Something about the question shocks me—the ability to choose, to make the decision forwhat next. I can’t remember the last time I was given a choice so upfront. A lifetime of being told when to be where and what to wear when I show up for whatever gala or political fundraiser means that making choices formeis kind of . . . new.
And then I take in this man, this relativestrangerwho saved me today. Maybe he could be a white knight—could help me leave my ivory tower for good. Snap the last thread holding me to my past life of being a good girl, obedient, listening, and following the rules that were put in front of me.
“Your place?” I ask, trying to be coy and sexy the way I’ve seen my friends do after a night out on the town as they choose the men they’ll be leaving with.
When Dante smiles, I know I made the right choice.
Thirteen
-Lilah-
The home Dante drives us to is gigantic. Even though it's already dark with the mid-fall light leaving early, I don't miss the giant black iron gate we drive through or the winding driveway. I don't miss the way a pathway leads to another smaller home behind the estate. And I surely don't miss the marble foyer and grand chandelier gently lighting the entryway we walk into.
"Uh, wow," I say, looking around and taking in the giant hallway as he leads me up the spiraling staircase.
"It's a home," he says like it's nothing. "A family home."
"A family home? Like you live with—”
"Come," he says, cutting me off and quickly walking down a long hallway. We enter through one door that has a sitting room slash tv area and then through a second hallway before going up another staircase.
The house is a damned mansion.
I stay quiet as Dante drags me through the house until, finally, he pulls me into a room and shuts the door behind us.
"Oh my god, do you live with . . . your parents?" I ask, my eyes wide and confused and, admittedly, a bit alarmed. I pull my hand from his, stepping back into the sitting area and only letting myself get a small glimpse into the huge, gorgeous bedroom.
"Jesus, no. Well, kind of, but not in that way," he says.
I cross my arms on my chest, raising an eyebrow.
Although they always mysteriously stopped calling after a few weeks, I have had boyfriends.
I've had quite a few boyfriends, actually. Boyfriends with money and power and connections.
But also, I've had boyfriends who lived in the same home as their parents and tried to play it off as if they didn'tlive with their parents.
And this man before me is not in his twenties. He's not just out of school, trying to figure things out. He has money and prestige, even if I can't figure out from where. And he . . . lives with his parents?
He steps closer, pulling me into him, and the feeling that fires between us reminds me of why I let things get this far—why I ignored every red flag and kept going.
"My dad lives here. He's older, and I don't trust him living alone. My nephew also lives here, on another wing."
"A wing?"
"A part of the house."
"I know what a wing is, Dante. I'm just saying . . . This house haswings?" He smiles like he finds my awe cute.
