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“But you’re an innocent little bird,” he mutters, bending down to kiss her forehead. “Mylittle bird, and I don’t want you to be upset.”
“Okay, fine,” Rory sighs, leaning against his chest. They stand like that for a few moments until Rory snaps her head back and points toward the ocean. “Holy crow, did you see that?”
“See what?” Angelo growls, brushing his hand over the back of his slacks, where I know he keeps his gun.
“I’m pretty sure I just saw a humpback whale.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh, look.”
She points over the railing and out to the inky abyss. My brother untangles himself from her and squints to the horizon.
“I don’t see—fuck’s sake.”
He realized too late that Rory’s got her heels in her hand, sprinting down the side deck toward the bow. The strong wind carries her gleeful, parting retort.
“Humpback whales in December? Don’t be an idiot, baby.”
I laugh aloud, and from across the terrace, Angelo’s eyes find mine and darken with annoyance. I crack an imaginary whip, which only pisses him off even more. He mutters something bitter under his breath, before flipping me off and storming down the deck after his wife.
Still grinning, I turn around, flick my cigarette butt into the ocean and rest my forearms on the railing. Only a few beats of peace pass before the crashof another glass snaps my shoulders into a tight line and wipes the smirk off my face.
I palm my jaw. Four.
To my right, the staff door connecting the bar to the outside seating area bursts open. White light and irritation flood out of it.
“Just get out of my way for a little while, yeah?” Freddie hisses. My gaze slides sideways. He holds the door open and glares at Penelope as she slinks past him and out onto the terrace.
She peers around, regarding the empty tables and chairs with bewilderment, before whipping around to face him. “And do what, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Penny. Collect glasses and empty the ashtrays, perhaps? You know, things that real bartenders do?”
Penelope steps toward him, but he slams the door in her face. Slams it a little too hard for my liking, and a strange sheet of irritation slides under my skin, cold and rigid. I suppose it’s the gentlemanin me. By nature, I dislike watching a man—especially one on my payroll—talk to a woman like that, even if she’s one I’m not a fan of.
My own hypocrisy is not lost on me, because hell, only a few hours ago, I told the same girl I should have whacked her over the head with a hammer. Just like whipping out my Glock at a wedding, it was very out of character for me. Self-control sits at my very core, tethering me like an anchor, and yet, it seems to defy gravity the moment she steps into my vision.
An uneasy possessiveness creeps over me and settles in a noose around my neck. It’s almost as if she’s mineto be pissed off at. Nobody else’s. Definitely not Freddie the fucking barman’s.
She pushes off the door and weaves through the tables, picking up beer glasses and tucking them into the crook of her arm as she goes. My torso twists like it’s tethered to her, forcing me to witness her hemline slip up her thighs and the fabric of her neckline gape away from her chest every time she bends over to pick up another glass.
Irritation flares in my chest with every dip. With every glimpse of tights-clad thigh and every flash of black bra. Black. Of course her bra is black. Bet it’s lace, too. Bet she never matches it to her panties, and, speaking of panties, I bet they are obscene. Dental floss things I could snap off with my teeth, or, at the very least, the type that barely covers her pussy.
Fuck, she’s annoying. I have half a mind to throw her overboard based on my assumption of her underwear preferences alone.
Stop it. She’s barely old enough to drink. I’m burning up and just about to light up another cigarette in an attempt to short-circuit the semi forming in my slacks when she suddenly stops collecting glasses. Balancing them precariously in her arms, she crosses the seating area to the railing and stares out to the black silhouette of the Coast.
Her eyes close and she tilts her head up to the moon. I can’t take my eyes off her. Thick lashes rest on pale, round cheeks. Rhythmic puffs of condensation escape plump, parted lips, before being carried away by the same wind that makes her long, red ponytail dance.
Something unwanted, unsavory, burns in my chest, but common sense snuffs it out like a hard blow extinguishing a candle.
She’s not the Queen of Hearts; she’s far too uncivilized for that. No, just a red-herring with a killer body. Dangerous, sure, but only to weak-willed idiots like my cousins and security detail, not to a man like me.
The decking groans under my feet as I step out of the shadows, and immediately, Penelope stills. Her eyes pop open, but they don’t come to me. Instead, she glares out to sea and hardens her jaw, as if she knows, just by the sound of my footsteps, that the silhouette looming beside her is me.
Petty amusement fills me as I stroll in her direction. I have every intention of ignoring her and heading back inside. Treating her like an expense on a spreadsheet and not like a woman whose panties have me intrigued. But as I pass, I make the mistake of stealing a glance at her arm, and notice her skin is coarse with goosebumps.
And then I hear her teeth chatter.
