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But his head is already bent over the papers, and I slowly back out, closing the door.
I’m not sure I breathe again until I’m outside in the back lot where employees usually park. Leaning against the wall, I kick at the gravel. I try and breathe and swallow and get things back to normal.
Nicolo’s going to kill me.
And that whole scene in there? Apart from the burn of embarrassment, an uneasiness rocks the pit of my stomach, and fizzes at the edges of me.
Taking another breath, I straighten and make my way to my car, keys already in one hand. Suddenly I’m aware of the dim pound of music and noise from beyond the door at my back, it’s not that well-lit, and I’m alone.
Traffic buzzes on the road beyond as does the sounds of people, but . . . yeah, I’m alone and Nicolo is going to kill me.
How and when he suddenly matters to this degree is something I’m struggling with, except, oh, God, he does matter. He’s inserted himself in my life like my very own overgrown guardian angel. Or is that devil?
He’s very hard to ignore and I want him so much it makes me shake.
I keep thinking that.
Because I don’t understand it. I mean, I completely understand wanting him, he’s gorgeous, unexpected, and overwhelming. He makes me wet and aching, and I want him to be my first.
Maybe my only.
That stuns me so much that I try and pull out of the lot—without even turning the key in the ignition.
Holy hell.
All we’ve done is kiss a few times.
Was it only two days ago I met him, and my heart skipped and danced at the thought of a man like that interested enough to ask me out? It feels like a lifetime.
He’s made me move in.
It’s temporary, but . . .
This time I turn the key and pull out, and Nicolo’s going to kill me.
I drive the short distance to the studio. I have keys, and there are some things I want to grab, a photo for a client I want to touch up and have ready because, hey, if he’s going to kill me, I might as well do some work.
Besides, I don’t want to let some coward of a stalker control my life.
With that in mind I make my way into the studio, locking the door behind me.
* * *
I lose myself in my work, and when I finish, I’m turning off the lights when something flashes. Oh, shoot. My phone. I put it on silent.
My heart skipping about ten beats, I pick it up. There are exactly five texts and three calls from Nicolo, and he’s pissed. So pissed from the texts that even though the smoke of his voice does things to me, no voice ever should, I don’t listen to the messages.
He’ll have to wait until I get back to his house. I flirt with the idea of going to my place to really piss him off, but honestly, I don’t think that’s smart.
Someone broke in while I wasn’t home.
I’m about to put my phone away when it lights up. “I’m on my way, I—”
“Avah.” The voice is accented, and I can’t place from where. It’s an exaggerated hiss, and I don’t recognize it. I didn’t even look at the screen when I answered, thinking it was Nicolo.
But it’s not. It’s most definitely not, and I lean against the front desk in the dark, heart hammering my ribs as my stomach clenches.
“Avah . . .”
