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“Christ, Ani, always so fucking dramatic, aren’t you? Maybe you should ask who it is before you just swing open the door and invite a serial killer into your home?”
“You’re such a bitch, maybe you should find someone to tie you to your bed, huh?” There’s a laugh on her end. I reach for the handle but take her advice instead. “Who’s there?” I ask through the door. I’m knocked off my axis at the answer.
“Heaven, it’s Luca. Let me in.”
Bristol’s laugh grows louder. “See you have a date with destiny. I’ll let you go. Don’t fuck this up. Give him a chance, you may like to be spanked, you know.”
I’m mute at her words. “Oh, fuck, you do like it. Okay, my job is done. Let him in to have his way with your body. If not, you’ll regret it.” There’s a click on the other end, and she’s gone.
My brownstone is all mine, the first thing I invested in after law school. It’s not lavish, like Luca’s, but I’ve made it my haven, my place of escape. Do I allow him to intrude into my place of sanctuary?
I stand for a few seconds, as if he’ll leave. He won’t. This is Luca after all. His second set of knocks startles me, and the hot chocolate sloshes in the mug and splashes on my hands. I let out a curse, but it’s enough for him to hear me.
“Heaven, I imagine your analytical mind is rationalizing the pros of opening this door with the cons that go with it.”
I don’t answer him. “Anisten, open the door. I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to, but we’re not over. You know it, and I know it. Now open the fucking door.”
I let out a mock scoff. “You just said you’d never force me to do anything and yet, you’re demanding I open my door. You do understand the irony there, right, Slick?”
“She speaks, finally.” Fuck, in his low deep timbre, even his teases are sensual. I know enough about Luca and understand his tone. I’ve learned so much about the man. He has to have socks on at all times, except when he’s in bed. He takes them off right before crawling under the sheets, like some people rid themselves of their shoes after crossing the front door into their home. He hates pizza. What full-blooded Italian hates pizza? It’s sacrilegious, but he does. His favorite dish is spaghetti and meatballs. The man claims it’s the one dish he can cook, though he’s not cooked it for me yet. He loves bananas but hates banana desserts. He hates apples but will eat them in every kind of dessert you can think of.
“Heaven, I won’t force you, but you can’t get rid of me either.”
There’s a tap on the other side of the door, as if he dropped his head against the thin wood separating us.
“Please, Anisten.”
It’s not like I can send him home. I know enough about Luca. He won’t give up. I can’t say the man will pitch a tent on my doorstep, but he would sleep in his fancy-ass town car.
I step forward, careful as to not spill my cocoa. I disable my alarm before pulling back the door. I tug at it just enough for his face to come into view. He hasn’t shaved in a week by the looks of it. His jet-black hair, which he wears tight against his head, is so long I could run my fingers through it if I want to. And I don’t. Fuck, there’s not a part of me that believes my declaration.
His eyes roam my body, from top to bottom. His smile is all-consuming as if just in his expression he’s already wrapping his arms around me and telling me we’ll be okay. I want to believe him, but then I don’t.
“You look rather cozy, Heaven.”
It’s the first words he’s spoken to me, face-to-face, since the charity event. And his voice is as velvety smooth as it had been the last time we spoke. I could place his voice on repeat throughout the day and never tire of it, especially when he calls me Heaven.
He passes through the door but stands in front of me. He reaches to touch my skin, never taking his eyes from my face, but pulls away.
“I’ve missed you, Heaven.”
And I’ve missed him. I can’t deny it, not that I’ll tell him this.
“So, now that you’re here, might as well come in and make yourself at home.” I point down the hallway, but it’s not like he doesn’t know the layout of my apartment. At the end of the hall is a closet, and he opens it up, placing his jacket on the back of the door where he has every other time he’s come over.
Taking a right, the only other way into my home, he passes through my kitchen, standing in the living room.
“You could have called, you know.” I push against the peninsula island separating the two rooms and look away from him.
He takes the three long steps to break the space between us and tips my chin to his line of sight.
“And would you have answered, Heaven?”
I pull myself from his touch, looking for my hot chocolate I’d abandoned in the hallway. Now, I require something more potent.
Crossing into the kitchen, I pull for the top white cabinet over the refrigerator where I keep the good stuff. I move to grab my vodka, but steps are heard behind me as the cabinet is closed before I can reach for it.
“Nope, not right now. We’re going to talk. This is not the time for alcohol.”
