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Heading out of my new bedroom, I stopped in front of the master. With gray walls and mahogany furniture, it had a masculine touch. The large bed was unmade, and dress shirts and ties lay over the back of a chair, some fallen to the floor. It looked like a messy king lived in here. I had an impulse to clean it, but I quelled it and moved on. I didn’t know how he would feel about me going through his things and I didn’t want to. I might have to live with him, but this was an arrangement—not a real marriage.
However, when I thought of my other options, I couldn’t help but feel relief from Oscar Perez’s death. I could guarantee that if I were sent to his home for the day, I wouldn’t have been lying languid on his counter from an orgasm I didn’t have to reciprocate. My skin crawled at the thought of him touching me.
I would kiss whoever killed him.
When I opened the fridge, I was relieved to see some pre-made meals I only had to pop in the oven. There were handwritten notes on the top of each saying what they were in a feminine scrawl. So, he did have a cook. I was going to feel like less of a woman if I had to have some other woman make my meals now that I was getting married. I guessed I would have to put learning how to cook on my to-do list, though it wasn’t as if that was exactly full.
I put a casserole in the oven and then searched the house for a phone.
As I stood at the island and pulled my hair into a ponytail, my brows knitting from the unsuccessful search, the back door opened. My pulse slowed.
Nico stepped inside, his gaze running from the floor to me. God, that plain white t-shirt would be the death of me. Grease stained his arms and hands and he was sweaty to a hot degree. I finished tying my hair up, and then dropped my clammy hands to my sides.
He eyed me as he passed a couple feet away, like it was a natural thing for me to be in his home, but he wasn’t sure whether he liked it. I had the distinct feeling he didn’t and suddenly felt unwanted and out of place. It seemed as though his presence occupied the whole kitchen and there was no room for me.
I stood there, watching his back as he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the faucet. His dark hair was mussed, brushing his collar, and I grew warm remembering I’d had my hands in it not an hour ago.
“I thought we talked about that staring thing.” His voice was deep, slithering down my spine with a rough caress. He emptied his glass in one drink without turning around.
“We didn’t talk about anything.” My response was quiet. “You talked and just assumed I was listening.”
“You were listening,” was all he said, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink.
A heaviness filled the air and my lungs. Uncertain.
Suggestive. Each silent second was the tick of a bomb soon to detonate. This weight in my chest, this thrill beneath my skin that thrummed when he was near, wouldn’t be good for me. He didn’t even want me here. All my reservations about this engagement came to the surface.
I shifted. “Can we talk?”
“About what?” There was a tightness to his shoulders I couldn’t miss.
“About . . . us?”
“Is that a question, or do you have something to say?”
“I have something to say.”
He finally turned around, crossed his arms, and leaned against the counter.
“Go ahead, then.”
I swallowed. “I’m sure my papà would forget the marriage contract if you asked him to.”
His eyes sparked with dark amusement. “I’m sure he would.”
I paused, not expecting his response. I’d believed my papà had been the one to pressure Nico into this marriage—that his anger was for another reason entirely. I just hadn’t known how to start the conversation any other way.
“So . . . have him do it.”
“Now, why would I do that?” he drawled, though his voice was edged with something not-nice.
My brows pulled together. “Why wouldn’t you?”
His gaze turned to ice. “Good question.”
I knew I’d walked myself into that and sort of deserved it, but I still bristled from his insinuation. If this was how all of our conversations were going to go, I would go insane before we even got married.
I hesitated, not understanding any of this. “We won’t do well together,” was what came out, when I wanted to say: You’re the only man I’ve met who could do me permanent damage.
