Wife?
And also, did hemakebreakfast?
As if on cue, another text pops up.
Lorenzo: Priest’s chef made you one of your disgusting green smoothies.
Ah, so it wasn’t him, then. My thumbs hover over the screen, ready to tap out a response. But then I decide against it. For all he knows, I’m still sleeping. And besides, I’m not ready to face him yet.
Or ever.
I turn off my phone screen and toss it onto the bed, groaning as I slap a hand over my face.
Did I have sex with him? I would remember that, wouldn’t I?
I throw back the covers and head to the en suite bathroom. Thank heavens for small mercies. I have zero ability to remember the bathroom from last night, so once I’m inside and flip on the light, I’m struck by the monstrosity and grandeur of it all. This guest room bathroom is half the size of my apartment. The floor and walls are marble. The shower is big enough to fit half a dozen people comfortably. Not to mention the wall jets, overhead spray, and the sauna function.
Plus, all my toiletries are already neatly waiting for me inside. I don’t know if it was drunk me, Scorpion, or Priest’s incredible staff who was responsible, but as I turn on the hot water and step under the spray, I’m grateful to whomever it was.
I stay in the shower longer than necessary, until the whole room is filled with steam and the mirrors are fogged up. I never want to leave. This shower is fucking amazing. It’s a far cry from the pathetic offering in Scorpion’s cabin, and it definitely outshines the narrow square masquerading as a shower in my apartment.
Finally, I finish and turn off the water, heading out of the shower to dry myself off. Since the mirrors are steamed up, I settle for brushing my teeth—naturally, my toothbrush and paste are already set up awaiting me—and then head back into the bedroom to dress. My overnight bag is here on a chair, but the clothing inside is gone, only my lingerie remaining. A brief moment of worry hits me until I realize that a staff this excellent probably hung up my clothing in the closet.
My suspicions are confirmed. The simple black dress I brought is hanging in the walk-in. And the walk-in is the size of my bedroom back in the city. I dress quickly. My hair is wavy and a little unruly. As I try to smooth it down into some semblance of order, I catch sight of the glistening diamonds on my left hand.
They’re huge, of course. Even if this wedding is a sham, every part of it has been cleverly designed to look real. Everything from the reception and gown to the rings on my finger. I’m just amazed Misha didn’t include a clause in that marriage contract stipulating the carat weight of the diamond.
But I don’t want to think about my brother now. I have another monster to face, and he’s waiting for me downstairs in the kitchen. I fasten a pair of earrings, slap on some foundation, blush, and lip gloss, and then I grab my phone before I reluctantly emerge from my haven. I follow the hall to a grandstaircase, and from there, I track the scent of eggs and bacon all the way to the kitchen.
When I step inside, Lorenzo is at the fancy espresso maker. I notice that it’s just like the one he had in the cabin.
“Good morning,” he says over his shoulder as he finishes making his cup and then turns to me. “Did you sleep well?”
I’m somehow unprepared for the sight of him, all casual in a white T-shirt and ragged denim that clings to his long legs in all the right places. Or his biceps, which are also covered in an array of tattoos. God, he looks good. Well-rested, so classically handsome it almost hurts, oozing danger and menace.
“I slept like the dead,” I answer cautiously. “Yesterday was exhausting.”
It’s better than blurting out the question burning me up inside.What happened between us last night?It’s too loaded, thanks to those memories of him spanking me. Even now, my pussy flutters to think of it. I’m horrified anew at my response.
“Your smoothie.” He points to a tall glass filled with green liquid like it’s crime scene evidence. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in bacon and eggs? A bagel?”
The thought of consuming anything makes my stomach churn. I’m not even sure I can handle my go-to smoothie. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Sure.”
I could probably use it.
He goes about fixing me a cup the way I like it, an awkward silence falling between us. It’s kind of homey. I like watching his back, his tattooed hands when I get a flash of them as he brews me a cup.
When he’s finished, he hands it to me. I take it, our fingers brushing.
“Thank you,” I force out.
He raises his cup to me like this is a toast. “You’re welcome. Are you sure you don’t want bacon and eggs? I’ve got the bacon in the oven, and I like my eggs over easy, so I haven’t started them yet.”
“You cook?” Propping my hip against the island, I take a sip of the coffee. It’s heavenly.
