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The door thumps shut again, and the wind is fresh on my cheeks, but I’m toasty warm, glowing from the inside.
Why do I need a plane ticket? I’m home.
Nine
Santo
I’m staring out at the grounds, arms folded, when my study door creaks open. It’s dark out there, overcast and stormy, heavy clouds blocking out the stars.
“Leave me,” I mutter, not bothering to turn around. The wind moans past the glass balcony doors, rattling them in their panes.
A soft voice says, “Screw that.”
I spin around, heart leaping. “Erin.”
She’s pale and tired, those freckles standing out extra stark on her skin, but she gives me a wobbly smile as she comes inside. Her curls are braided over one shoulder, and she’s twined tinsel around the end. The door thumps closed behind her, and she holds up a plate covered with tin foil.
“You missed Christmas dinner, you giant scrooge.”
I did? My stomach twists, and I realize far too late that I’m hungry. How long have I been working in here non-stop? What time is it?
“I was busy.” Busy licking my wounds, anyway. Busy scheming and plotting and trying to find a way to make this impossible womanchooseme. Trying to be the man she deserves. “Is Allegra furious?”
“Spitting feathers,” Erin assures me, setting the plate on my desk.
“Well. Every cloud, I suppose.”
My captive snorts, and I stare at her. Maybe if I stop blinking altogether, I’ll catch something: a twitch or a sigh. Some kind of signal; a clue to her mood. But Erin’s a cipher in that green long-sleeved dress, her face unreadable as she sets a fork by the plate.
“She wanted you there,” she says slowly, choosing her words with care. I don’t think we’re talking about Allegra. “Does work always come first?”
“This does.” I stroll over to meet her at the desk. “Want to see what I’ve been doing?”
Erin shrugs. “Sure. I won’t understand half of your mob stuff, though.”
Maybe not right away, but she’s brighter than anyone else in this building. If she wants to, she’ll pick it all up.
But: “It’s not ‘mob stuff’. Come here.” Sinking into the desk chair, I pat one thigh—and I don’t exhale until she shuffles around the desk and settles onto my lap, the skirt of her dress spreading over my legs.
God. The relief of having her near again is a physical thing, a knot loosening in my gut. I press my face against her hair andbreathe, all the jagged pieces inside me settling back into place.
I hated this day apart. Too many miserable hours without her.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Erin whispers, and she’s clinging to my forearms. When did I grab hold of her like this? I’m squeezing her tightly, like someone might snatch her away.
Not likely. They’d lose an arm if they tried.
“Santo,” she says again. Her fingers play at the edges of my rolled sleeves, slipping underneath like she’s greedy for bare skin. Secret skin. “What did you want to show me?”
Right. Focus.
Jesus.
Clearing my throat, I tap at my keyboard, the laptop humming back to life. The screen brightens, and Erin leans forward, squinting at the columns of numbers.
“Oookay. What is…?”
“Those are your investments. I’ve put them in your name. There’s a couple million there, but if you want more to feel comfortable, you can have it. And my wealth is also your wealth, of course, but this money is specifically yours.”
