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I jerk my head toward the cardboard box of holiday decorations on the counter, tangled string lights and tinsel exploding through the open top.
“Look there.”
Nico frowns at the box of decorations, and I see it: the exact moment he spots the sprig of mistletoe snarled in the tinsel. One eyebrow lifts, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“How festive.”
His body is warm and sculpted under my hands. Has his wound healed well? If I pressed my front against his, would it hurt? “I’m deciding where to hang it. Any ideas?”
“Behind the counter,” Nico says immediately, plucking the mistletoe from the box. He spins the sprig between his thumb and forefinger, seemingly fascinated by the white berries and dark leaves. “Or better yet: upstairs in your apartment. Somewhere only I can find you, Leah.”
It’s the first time he’s used my name today. I bite my lip, giddy feelings bouncing around my chest like firecrackers, and when he holds the mistletoe over my head, one eyebrow raised, I just about die on the spot.
The sounds of the bookshop fade away as Nico lowers his head. There’s no radio, no whispering teenagers, no rumble of traffic outside. There’s only the hitch of my breath and the rustle of our clothes. My gasp as his mouth meets mine.
…God.
Nico Falasca kisses like a very bad man.
I was not prepared, because there’s nothing polite or gentle about it, nothing to ease me in—he’s all heat and nipping teeth and the scratch of his stubble against my cheeks, strong hands roaming up and down my sides like he owns me, the sprig of mistletoe tossed on the counter and forgotten. Nico feasts on me, hungry and harsh, and all I can do is sway in his powerful arms, some part of my brain desperately wondering how I got here.
Never mind that I’m at work, or that we’ve only met once before. Never mind that kissing this man is a really, really bad idea.
I’m lost, whimpering and breathless. When Nico’s tongue rubs against mine, I melt like a snowflake hitting hot water.
His dark chuckle floats through my brain and I fight my way back to reality, tearing my mouth away and slumping against the counter. Jeez. So much for dignity.
My chest heaves beneath my sweater dress, and I feel like I just ran twenty blocks. What is there to say after that? Oh, yeah.
“Raul’s gonna be so pissed off.”
Nico smirks, but he doesn’t look flustered at all, the big jerk. He tucks my hair behind my ear, his touch lingering. He’s standing a lot closer than before.
Can he feel how I’m burning up? Does he sense how slick I am between my legs, aching and needy? How badly I want him already?
The knowing glint in his eyes says yes, he knows exactly how riled up I am, and he’s smug as hell about it.
“So you’ll stay behind the bookshop counter,” Nico says, like we never paused our earlier conversation for a sprig of mistletoe. “You won’t wander off behind the shelves with strange men.”
“And you’ll keep spying on me like a weirdo,” I return, cranky and embarrassed by the change of subject. Did our kiss really not affect him? Not atall? Was it just a festive game? “Until you get bored or I call the cops, I guess.”
Nico tilts his head. “You won’t call the cops.”
It’s not a threat the way he says it. Nothing like Raul’s veiled promises of violence that night, the doctor glancing longingly at his medical bag. He’s simply stating a fact and daring me to contradict him.
I fold my arms. “And you won’t get bored.” My words are more confident than I feel.
The shop is quiet behind us. Deserted at last, with only the bookshelves and window display to witness my jangled nerves.
Nico gives one final gentle tug on my hair before strolling toward the exit. “Take care, Leah. I’ll be watching.”
Five
Nico
When Santo tells us all to meet in his study for a drink, that sounds like fun—but it’s never fun. It’s always business with Santo De Rossi.
Business with the finest Italian brandy in the world, but still. You’d be an idiot coming to the compound hoping for a good time.
