“Nah. My dad is actually out of town until Christmas, and my mom is probably sleeping.” He checks the time on his phone. It’s only a little after eight. “What do you say?”
“Let’s do it.” I glance around for our server. “Let’s pay the check and head out.”
“Already took care of it.”
“You what?”
“I already took care of the check,” Riggs repeats. “I gave the server my card when we ordered.” He looks so damn smug. I want to smack him.
“We agreed we’d split it,” I grouse, and he shrugs. Like a too bad, so sad kind of shrug. Asshole.
“I ate more than you did, anyway.” He stands and slides on his pretentious black peacoat. “Stop pouting. Let’s go.”
“I’m not pouting, you jerk. I’m angry.” I huff and stand up, putting on my own coat. When he turns to walk out, I follow him.
“You look like you’re pouting.”
“Screw you, Stanton.”
“Been there already, haven’t you, Barnes?” His eyes twinkle when he swings the car door open for me, and the smirk playing on his plump lips stops me in my tracks. I hold my breath as I scan his face. The thick scruff. The strong jaw. The sensual mouth. I feel the attraction everywhere. Sometimes, when I catch him looking at me like that, when he flirts, I can almost forget. Almost.
But then I remember, and the moment is broken.
I accidentally on purpose elbow him in the gut when I get into the car, and I don’t hide my smirk when he grunts at the impact. He’s the enemy, I remind myself. A liar. A thief.
I’m just here to win this contest, and then I’ll be done with him.
When Riggs saidhe lived in a condo, I was picturing something like what Kelley and Jesse live in. An apartment, but a little bigger and little nicer. When the driver pulls us into a parking garage beneath a condo high-rise off the Chicago River, I have a feeling my assumptions were wrong.
“Is that a doorman?” I ask Riggs, gesturing to the guy wearing a suit standing just inside a glass vestibule which holds a reception desk and an elevator.
Riggs glances where I’m pointing and smiles. “Yeah. That’s Mr. Williams. He’s been here since I was in high school.”
“Huh.”
We sit in the idling car for a moment, neither of us making a move to get out. When Riggs turns to me instead of reaching for the door handle, my shoulders tighten.
“What?” I ask flatly.
“Well, there’s probably something you should know before we go in there.”
Oh hell. I knew something was off with this guy. Like, who the hell can book a hotel for five hundred bucks a night and then still doesn’t want any cut of the winnings from this contest? People that rich gotta be corrupt.
“Is your family in the mafia?” I ask seriously. “If I go inside with you, will I be added to a list?”
He pauses for a second, then his eyebrows shoot up. “No. What? A list?”
“Yeah, you know, like a list of potential threats or, um, assets for the rival mafia. And then I’ll be surveilled and kidnapped and taken hostage by your enemies because they mistakenly thought I could be used as leverage against your family but, plot twist, you guys don’t actually care about me, so the rival mob is going to kill me but then, plot twist—”
“Another plot twist?”
“Yeah. Plot twist, the rival mafia don’s son falls in love with me and then I’m forced to marry him and then your dad kills my new father-in-law, making me and my new husband the new leaders of the rival mafia. Making us rivals.” I gesture from my chest to his. “Which means, you’ll probably be tasked to kill me, but my husband is obviously smarter and stronger and a better shot, so he’ll kill you first. Is that it?” Riggs’s face is a portrait of confusion before he shakes his head slowly.
“Yeah, no, that’s not even remotely close to reality.”
“Huh. Damn.” Damn. “Could have been hot, though. Now I want to read a book like that.”
He laughs. “Weirdly enough, me too.”
I snort and he rolls his eyes at me. “No, my family is not part of the Outfit, as far as I know. But I do need you to know about my mom.” He levels me with a serious look. “Remember how I said she’s not a pastry chef anymore?”
“Yes.”
“That’s because she was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis about a year and a half ago. Do you know what that is?”
My gut twists and my brow furrows.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “ALS. It’s a disease of the nervous system that affects muscle control.” I don’t say any more than that. That there’s no cure. That it’s fatal. The look on his face tells me he already knows.
“That’s right.” He never takes his eyes off me. “You probably won’t meet her. When I texted my mom’s nurse to let her know we were coming, she told me my mom is already asleep. Mom sleeps a lot these days. But just in case, I wanted you to know. She’s in a wheelchair now, and she has limited use of her arms.”
“Okay, yeah. Thanks, um, for the heads up.”