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I inhale her sweet scent and ease back to look at her, and I read the nervous energy in her face. She doesn’t know what comes next. “If you meet my brother, call him Adrian.”
“No,” she says, a smile on her swollen lips. “He’s no Adrian.”
“You don’t know him. Maybe he’ll seem like an Adrian.”
“I know that there’s no one quite like you and that’s a good thing.”
“Considering I’m still inside you, sweetheart, that’s good to hear.” I roll us to our sides, pulling out in the process. “How about that champagne?”
“I do believe I could use a drink. We should talk, Adrian.”
“You think?”
“Yes. I do. I’m not sure what we’re doing but I’m certain it’s complicated.”
“You are correct. Which is why we should drink that champagne, order pizza, and then fuck again.”Chapter EighteenPRI
I’ve barely had time to pull my blouse over my head when my cellphone buzzes on the hall table. I grab it and glance at a message from Logan, something about lunch tomorrow. I ignore him as Adrian walks out of my hall bathroom, shirtless, inked, and beautiful, and then disappears inside the kitchen. I dash down the hallway to the bathroom, use it, and while washing up, glance in the mirror to find my lipstick all over my face. Good Lord, did it look like this when Logan was here? I decide I don’t care. I don’t want to go down the rabbit hole that is Logan’s visit or the lines I’ve crossed with Adrian. Not right now. My sins with Adrian can’t be fretted over and my father taught me not to fret over spilled milk. As he says, do the clean-up and charge forward.
I exit the bathroom and find Adrian still in the kitchen, filling two champagne glasses. “I grabbed the pizza magnet from your fridge,” he tells me, offering me a glass that I accept, but not without my gaze sliding over his inked arms. God, he has a devil on his arm, not an ugly devil, but a devil or monster of some sort that is somehow beautiful. “I ordered two of your regulars,” he adds.
I tear my gaze from his arm and meet his keen stare. “I eat pineapple on my pizza,” I say.
“I heard. Works for me.”
“It does?”
“I’m sick and tired of the same pepperoni pizza the guys’ order. And yes, it’s a devil, if that’s what you’re trying to figure out. I was that deep undercover.”
“And you haven’t gotten rid of it?”
“It reminds me of things I don’t want to forget,” he says, and when I want to understand, it’s too late. He moves on, pulling out a stool for me and patting it. “Get cozy before you start drilling me for information.”
“I’m not going to drill you.”
“Yes, you are, but I’m tough.” He pats his jaw. “I can take it.”
He’s all but inviting my questions, but somehow, I don’t believe he’s ready to give those answers. “Let’s go to the living room,” I say. “It’s more comfortable.”
“Sure,” he says. “I have the bottle. You grab the glasses.”
Once we’re settled side by side on the couch, he motions to my glass. “Try the champagne. It’s supposed to be sweet rather than dry.”
I sip it, bubbles teasing my nose, sweetness touching my tongue. “It is. It’s good.”
He tries it himself and says, “It’s not as stout as tequila, but it’ll do.” He angles my direction. “Joke time.”
I smile, certain his jokes are distractions, ways to ease tension, and perhaps a segue to a deeper conversation. “I’m all ears.”
“Do you know why Spiderman doesn’t make a good boyfriend?”
“Why?”
“He’s too clingy.”
I’m not sure what the hidden meaning is to this joke, but I sense there is one. In fact, I bristle with the idea that he’s warning me not to be clingy. “Are you telling me you’re not boyfriend material? Because if that’s—”
“I’m telling you that I’m not Spiderman. I’m more Batman who will beat your ex’s ass if he acts again like he did tonight, and I won’t be sorry when he cries like a little bitch. I’m also the guy who let the ever-so-moral Superman convince him not to kill Waters when I had the chance. And so, here we are.”
I set aside his promise to kick Logan’s ass and focus on what feels important. “Who’s Superman?”
“My father. He was an agent.”
I read the past tense. “How long has your father been gone?”
“Four years. He and my mother were killed in what was called a random mugging the year after I joined the Feds. I believe it was a hit.”
“My God. Do have any idea who?”
He gives a negligible nod. “He had a good number of enemies. I tried to pin it down. I failed.”
“Was your mother FBI as well?”
“She owned a bakery.” He smiles a sad smile. “The biggest supplier of donuts to law enforcement that ever lived. And she was proud of my father.” I can feel the shift in topic even before I understand it as he adds, “He believed that the law was best served by the book and within the system. We had to work inside that system.”
