Page 170 of Safe Word

His hands still warmed the small of my back; my fingers rested against the back of his neck, our heartbeats carrying between one breath and the next.

We stood like that, locked in a quiet standoff – each of us waiting for the other to find the strength to break away.

But neither of us moved. The gap between us narrowed, our breaths still mingling, heavy with unresolved desire. His eyes lingered on mine, and despite the sworn restraint, I couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze drifted to my lips, as if daring me to be the one to break the fragile peace. And, for one fleeting moment, I almost did. Because despite the promises we’d just made, the spark that simmered, its dangerous pull – it burned brighter with each passing second.

And we half-expected the other to start the kiss anew.

But he pulled away then, rubbing his face with both hands, as if trying to scrub the moment away with force.

‘We’ll be late for the interview,’ he muttered, throat tight.

Nodding, I watched him round the hood of the car. His posture was all tension – shoulders drawn, steps hollow – as if each movement kept something darker caged beneath the surface.

He slipped inside, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

With a sigh that scraped the back of my throat, I followed. The quiet settled thick as I buckled in, every breath feeling borrowed.

Wiping my palms on my dress, I was already shifting gears in my head. Compartmentalising. Masking.

‘Rest up if you want,’ he said, not quite looking at me.

I didn’t argue. Didn’t banter to keep it light. His offer was mercy disguised as suggestion – a chance to look away, to gather what was left of my composure before it cracked in his presence.

And I was sure he needed the distance too – maybe more than I did.

But I couldn’t leave it there. The silence was beginning to feel cruel.

As his hand moved to the gear stick, I reached for it.

Just a touch. Intentional. Light – as though checking how much the outline of a bruise hurt.

His head turned sharply, eyes locking with mine as a wild strand of hair fell over his forehead. The sunlight caught him through the windscreen, streaking gold through the rich, earthy brown of his irises. And for a second, he looked breakable.

‘We’ll have Salvatore’s address by the end of the day,’ I assured him quietly, trying to turn the moment around.

He inhaled a long, laboured breath. Then looked down where our skin met – his hand beneath mine.

Warm.

‘You’ll get more answers.’ I added.

He inclined his head – slow, almost distracted. ‘Answers are good.’

I let the moment breathe, let the weight of what we weren’t saying settle around us like dust. But when his thumb swept gently along the side of my hand – a brush of softness that burned – I pulled away.

Hot and treacherous, a shiver rippled down my spine. I averted my gaze and stared out the window, afraid of what might show on my face if I turned back.

Somehow, in that moment, I wished I could have scheduled Ghost for tonight. There was too much piling up in my head, getting ready to explode.

Vinnie’s eyes were a bright, piercing blue. Like the sky at noon, cloudless and glaring.

He’d been avoiding my eyes ever since the day I’d left him standing on the pavement outside my building, with a guarded demeanour that made his shoulders hunch like a question I hadn’t answered.

A question I knew he didn’t want answered, either.

He never struck me as someone who’d cling. Not with his reputation – the flirtiness, the easy smirks. His flavour of women were the ones who never stuck for more than a night or two.

But now, as Cain and I walked deeper into the muted elegance of the hotel suite where the interview would take place, I couldn’t decide what had latched onto Vinnie’s stare as he counted our steps. Jealousy?