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six
Emilia
The rain pattered againstthe window, streaking it with rivulets that distorted my view of the street outside. I watched people hurrying past, trying to escape the downpour. My traitorous heart weighed heavy, uncertainty and fear dragging me down like an anchor. The desire to see Alfie again gnawed at me, but there was a magnetic pull between us that was getting harder and harder to deny.
I didn’t put the brick back in the door. I couldn’t trust myself with him.
I half expected Alfie to barge in anyway, demanding and possessive and hurt that I wasn’t letting him in. He didn’t though. Alfie’s only answer to my locked door was a single rose left on the brick in the alley.
It was the last thing I was expecting from someone like him.
By the end of the week, I had seven roses, one for every night Alfie tried to see me. They were the oddest color, a deep plumb so dark they almost looked black. I couldn't imagine where he'dgotten them. Yet every night when I closed up the shop for inventory, by morning another black rose would be laying on the brick by the locked back door. He never knocked. He never tried the handle, even though he must have known I was inside.
It was simultaneously the oddest and sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. The infuriatingly handsome Irishman confused me. Terrified me. Intrigued me. Yet there was something else that tugged just below my heart every time I found another rose by the back door. Despite the danger and disloyalty our connection threatened, the mere thought of him sent warmth coursing through my veins.
Contrary to what I'm sure Sofia believed, I was far from prudish. One benefit of owning my own bookstore was the endless supply of romance novels, and, while I'd read my fair share of happily ever after, I also enjoyed the steamier side of things. What happened with Alfie that night in the bookstore, though, was the first time I'd ever experienced anything like that firsthand.
And Alfie hadn't even tried to have sex with me.
It was maddening. Infuriating. Thrilling. I'd lain awake every night, alone with the memory of emerald eyes and whiskey kisses. His wicked fingers between my legs and his firm grip around my throat. The commanding way he'd pinned me to the counter and painstakingly dismantled me piece by piece. The dirty talk. The way I'd begged for it. The way he'd denied me, only to give me one of the most earth-shattering orgasms I'd ever experienced.
He'd acted like he wasn't affected, but I knew it wasn't true. The proof was in his eyes, blown black with want, in the unruly way his curls fell over his forehead, cock straining in the confines of his jeans. He'd wanted me. Badly.
But instead of taking his own pleasure, he'd brought me to mine.
I'd never met anyone like Alfie. How could the same man go from fingering me next to the cash register to leaving me flowers in a sweet gesture that felt strangely like courtship? I couldn't stop thinking about him. The scorching heat of his kisses. The softness that he tried to hide behind his bravado.
Of course, Sofia noticed the flowers first, and, of course, she told Luca. Their teasing was relentless, although Luca was more reserved. Sofia was convinced that I'd found my Romeo, but Luca had nothing but questions. I'd never seen him so protective. It was sweet. Annoying, but sweet. I wished I could tell them about Alife, but that would be like signing his death warrant.
So, I kept him a secret. My Irish mobster who courted me with black roses.
On the eighth night, I put the brick back in place.
On the eighth night, Alfie showed up.
I'd been reorganizing the mystery section, and when I turned around, Alfie was leaning against the bookshelves. I yelped, and a book flew through the air. Again.
Alfie deftly caught the book and grinned. "This must be your way of saying hello."
I blushed. "Hello."
"Hi."
Alfie set the book on the shelf and closed the distance between us, the scent of him making my knees weak. "Miss me?"
"No."
"Liar. Can we just skip the whole part where you tell me this is a terrible idea and I agree with you?" Alfie's grin turned wolfish, and, despite myself, I shivered. Alfie brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his touch featherlight. "Because I want to talk."
"Talk?"
Alfie hummed. "But first, I want to kiss you."
His lips were on mine before I could protest--not that I would have. Alfie wrecked me, his touch a heady, intoxicating whirlpool, and I craved it. I craved him. I melted against him, and Alfie wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My tangled fingers in his curls earned me a delicious groan from Alfie's throat. His mouth pressed hard against mine, the kiss punctuated by the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat against my breasts.
I was dizzy when we broke apart, and I didn't miss how Alfie leaned his forehead against mine to catch his breath. His hair was tousled, and he had a few days growth on his chin--I could still feel the delicious burn from it on my skin. But his left eye was also bruised along the cheekbone in a way that made me think his roguish appearance might not be on purpose.
I gently traced the contours of the bruise. "What happened here?"
