Page 34 of The Viper's Wife

He walks through the living room, calling over his shoulder, “Make yourself at home. There’s liquor in the freezer.” His voice echoes in the emptiness of the place as he lets himself into his bedroom.

Charming.

I kick my shoes off at the entrance and make a slow loop around his place.

There’s no decor on the walls. No rugs.

He has a balcony at least, and from what I can see, it looks big, with a nice view. I drift toward it, and as I do, I pass his bedroom door.

I freeze.

Through the gap, I catch sight of abs flexing as Nico pulls his shirt off with one hand. He must sense me hovering outside his room like a peeping Tom, because he rolls his head back to meet my gaze. A single strip of white light bisects his body. He whips out his belt with cocky assuredness, holding it loosely in one hand like a whip.

“Couldn’t wait to get started?” he asks.

I must look like an idiot, standing there with my jaw halfway to the floor.

Nico peels off his jeans. “Or just came to watch the show?”

I swallow. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking a shower. I smell like wine.” Water hushes from his connected bathroom.

I take a step back.

Nico drops his jeans. Only his boxers are left—dark red with a black waistband. Tattoos cover his body. Some of them are clearly well-thought-out, beautifully done pieces. A few, I can tell even from a distance, are shitty. One on his inner bicep is brand new—still wrapped in plastic.

Another step back bumps me against his armchair. How am I supposed to pretend to be unaffected by him? “I can’t stay long. I have work tomorrow.”

Nico dips his thumbs into his waistband. “Sure.”

I run to the kitchen before he takes them off. I’m a fly pinging against glass, dumbly looking for escape. I lean against the kitchen counter and take a deep breath. Maybe Ishouldget a drink. A man has never made me this nervousbefore. I have to tell him, tonight, that this isn’t going to work out.

And I absolutely can not sleep with him.

I run a cold hand along my neck and face. I’m heating up.

I open the fridge.

Surprisingly, there are a few ingredients inside—eggs, fancy cheese, deli meats, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, butter, milk, and most interestingly, fresh spinach. Nico seems more the type of guy who lives exclusively off of vodka and steak.

The freezer has a few bottles of top-shelf whiskey—blech—and a sheet of what looks like frozen, homemade cookies with hand-written reheating notes on top. A gift from his loving mother? I assumed he hated her as much as his dad, but maybe he likes her as much as his sister.

A man who loves the women in his life, and who is loved enough to get homemade cookies from them? I decide not to think about that any deeper.

I pull out the whiskey, search the pantry for a glass, and pour myself a finger before settling into the armchair. I’m in no hurry to get home to Stefano and Dad. One of the apartment complexes I reached out to emailed me a contract while I was at work. I’ll sign it and move out as quickly as I can. Until then, I just need to get through the next several days.

By the time Nico comes out of his bedroom, I’m sleepy and relaxed as I flip through one of the grocery-store thriller books he keeps on the floor.

“It’s the mom,” he says, his voice echoing a little in the empty place and startling me. He points to the book in my lap. “She’s the killer.”

He’s dressed in black sweatpants and a black hoodie and scrubbing the top of his head with a towel.

I snap the book closed. “I don’t like spoilers.”

He smirks. “It’s not a spoiler. I’ve only read the first few pages. I’m telling you, it’s the mom.”

“The mom is a red herring. It’s the boyfriend.”