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He does a shitty job at hiding his smirk behind the back of his hand. “What?”
“Whatever smart-ass remark you’re saving until I’m halfway down the stairs. Say it now, while you’re within reach of my right-hook.”
He purses his lips. “Wasn’t gonna say shit.”
“Good.”
But the bastard’s a liar, because I’m three steps from the entrance hall when his gruff voice chases me.
“It’s been three weeks.”
I slow to a stop, glaring at the pink glitter hearts dangling from the chandelier. Apparently, Rory had so much fun decorating for Christmas, she’s getting started on Valentine’s Day two weeks early.
“I’m aware,” I grind out.
“Three weeks is a long time to be an ass-kissing simp, isn’t it?”
Irritation slithers along my nerves, but more so because I know he’s not wrong.
Three weeks of groveling. Three weeks stuck in redemption purgatory, playing a game only Penny knows the rules to. Three weeks of taking her out, paying her a hundred dollars—plus tip—for every kiss. Three weeks of staring at her living room window from across the street all night, every night, in case she changes her mind about not sleeping in my car.
Oddly enough, I’d be lying if I said I hated it. Fuck, at least it’s been three weeks with her in my life. Besides, I’ve become weirdly obsessed with finding out what makes her happy. With every beautifully wrapped box I slide over a candle-lit dinner table, I watch her tug off the bow with baited breath, hoping it’ll make her eyes light up in that way that makes my cock hard.
“The Birkin didn’t work then?”
I glance behind me to see Rory has joined her husband at the top of the stairs.
“Which one?” I grunt back. Aside from being one unsatisfying fist-fuck away from breaking my dick, the only frustrating thing about living in simp-mode is that I haven’t found that thing that makes her eyes light up yet. No, the fucking Birkin didn’t work. The next three didn’t work either. Or the Cartier bracelet, or the Benz that’s been collecting parking fines outside her apartment.
“Ah, the shit you do for love, eh?”
My gaze hardens on my brother. He’s got his arm around Rory's waist, a smugness to his expression that I want to pour acid over. It’s hard to believe this is the same miserable cunt that’d sneer in disgust any time talks of him taking a wife would fly over the dinner table.
“The shit you do indeed. Like, oh, I don’t know, secretly telling all your dinner guests not to touch your wife’s turkey because it’s as pink as Barbie’s playhouse, then proceeding to eat half of it and ride out a bout of salmonella instead of just telling her to shove it back in the oven for another forty-five minutes.” I hold my hand on my heart, enjoying the way Angelo’s expression turns dangerous. “That’s true love right there.”
Rory’s jaw drops open as she turns to her husband. “You told everyone not to eat my turkey?” Her eyes slide to mine. “Really? No one ate my turkey?”
I smile at her and keep moving toward the door. “Guess Gabe was right—I am a snitch.”
Much to my satisfaction, my brother’s entreating words follow me out to the driveway. At least I won’t be the only Visconti groveling tonight.
The drive to Penny’s apartment is slow and painful. I’ve hit the rush hour, joining the convoy of cars heading into Hollow or Cove for the night. Before I met my doom card, I’d have just driven like an asshole—up on the curb, the wrong way down one-way streets—to get there faster. But these days, there’s a higher chance that if I do that, I might not make it at all.
By the time I pull up outside Penny’s building and flash my lights against her window, I’m itching to see her. Her curtain twitches, but she takes her sweet-ass time coming down. I’m halfway through tapping out a warning text to her new cell when she breezes out of her apartment building and stops me mid curse word.
Holy fuck. She looks unreal.
I let my phone drop into the cup holder, and step out onto the street. I’d be lying if I said it was only to open her door—really, I want to get a good fucking look at her.
She’s wearing a dress. A pink, sparkly one, with feathery trim around the hemline and cuffs. Her white heels are so high, they’re going to make stealing kisses from her even easier.
The sight fills my chest for a reason other than her looking ridiculously hot. She’s refused to wear anything but sweats every time I take her out, no matter how fancy the destination.
Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere with her.
As she crosses the road, her gaze slides up to meet mine. She tries her best to feign indifference, but as always, a slight movement ruins her shitty poker face. Tonight, it’s the way she swallows when she glances at the space below my belt.
“You’re late,” is all she says.
