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I stand still, debating whether to follow them or not. Eventually, I give the butler a small smile and then retreat into the living room, curling back up on the couch and sipping more wine.
Leo is home, safe and unharmed.
The fire feels a little warmer. The wine a little stronger.
When Nick walks into the living room a few minutes later, Ifeelit. Without looking away from the burning grate, I know he’s walking closer. There’s a soft clink as he picks up the wine bottle and sets it back down.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have helped myself.”
He takes a seat in the armchair by the fire. “Yes, you should have. What’s mine is yours.”
I huff an uncomfortable laugh. “We’re not married.”
And I don’t want your blood money.
I think it; I don’t say it. Things between us are tense enough as it is. And I’malreadytaking it, technically. I’m not paying rent. Not chipping in on the food bill. I can only imagine how much Leo’s school costs based on the fancy exterior.
“We have a child together. That’s a more permanent commitment than marriage.”
I clear my throat. Nick saying, “We have a child together,” while we sit in front of a cozy fire warms my insides in a whole different way. One I struggle to ignore.
I shift uncomfortably. Sip some wine. “A commitment to Leo, not to each other. I’ll pay you back for it.”
Nick smiles as he leans back in the armchair. The fire’s glow plays with the harsher angles of his face. Softens and smooths them. “Not necessary. It’s a Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Romanee-Conti Grand Cru from Cote de Nuits, France.” The French rolls off his tongue as smoothly as Russian and English do.
I glance at the cursive letting on the label. Now that I look closely, it appears embossed. “So…expensive?”
Nick shrugs as he studies the flames dancing in the fireplace. “It’s meant to be drunk.”
Veryexpensive then.
I sip some more. “It’s good,” I admit.
He chuckles, low and husky. A sound I feel between my thighs. “Good.”
I start running my finger around the rim of the wineglass.
Everything about this should be awkward and uncomfortable.
I’m his ex, living in his house—mansion—with my son, who he didn’t know existed until a week ago, because people might try to kill us if we leave.
I’m angry with him. Angry with myself—for setting off the chain of events that got us here even if it was unintentional.
But I can’t seem to grasp on to any animosity right now, as I’m studying the profile illuminated by the gentle glow of the fire.
He glances over and catches me staring. The speed of my circles around the rim picks up, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
Nick doesn’t miss much though. I noticed that long before I learned what he does for a living. He stands and walks over to the couch where I’m sitting with all the ease and the assurance of an apex predator. Graceful and confident yet deadly.
“Do you want to be alone?”
“No,” I answer honestly. I’m sick of being alone.
He looks at the empty spot on the couch next to me. I shrug, and that’s all the encouragement Nick needs.
I eye him curiously as he sits less than a foot from me, trying to find some clues about where he’s been or what he’s been doing.
His appearance is pristine. The black button-down he’s wearing looks crisp and smells freshly laundered. Same with his black suit pants. Even his boots are immaculate, shiny leather.
