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The pointed toe of my shoe slowly drags up his calf. “Is this your loophole for not being with other people? A little bit of acting?”
The waiter returns to take our order for dinner, but our menus lie untouched. “Are you both ready, or can I give you a couple more minutes?”
“Some more time would be—” I begin.
“A bottle of your nicest champagne to start,” Nico says.
“Likely the 1973 Dom Pérignon Oenothèque Brut,” our server suggests.
“Perfect.” Nico grins at the waiter, who has the sense to understand that’ll be all for now and scampers away from our table. Nico’s body moves in slow motion, his veined hand rolling the glass of tequila between his stained fingers.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“How does it feel to be on top?” he asks.
My pulse amplifies past the point of what should be humanly possible.
“I think you’re confusing me for one of your other hookups. If I remember correctly, you haven’t had the luxury of seeing me on top of you.” I pull the cloth napkin off the table and settle it in my lap.
“Maybe you’ll have to show me what I’m missing out on.” His brow lifts. “Or are you not up for doing the work?”
Jerk. Gorgeous, smart-ass jerk.
I shrug off the feeling of being pinned to my seat like a shivering gazelle in a lion’s den. “Then what is all this?”
“You tell me.”
Almost ten years I’ve guarded this secret with my life.
Ten years of living an entirely different identity without anyone being the wiser.
Ten fucking years all to go up in flames because of the grinning man sitting in front of me.
Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten.
“Did you hack into my computer?” I’ve been so careful the past few weeks. There’s no way he could have put it together on his own.
“Seriously, Lil?” His brows furrow, and I feel bad about the implication.
The waiter returns with our champagne and fills our glasses to the brim as we watch their mechanical movements in silence.
Here goes nothing. “When did you find out?” I ask.
Nico’s elbows meet the beige tablecloth. “I had my suspicions the first week we were in Brazil.”
Our first week?
That’s a little over a month ago now. The erotica questions on the beach and that post-blow-job dinner must’ve been his attempts to get a confession out of me.
“How?” I gently tip the flute back, savoring every expensive sip.
“Your subtlety could use some improvement.” I fight the torpedo-sized urge to crush his face against the table.
“Hmm.” I shrug. If I say nothing, maybe I’ll wake up from this nightmare.
“Besides,Coastal Flingis obviously about us.”
It’s a crime to chug expensive champagne, but tonight is a worthy exception. I knock back the liquid and pour myself a refill. “It’s not.”
