The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

All I had to do was write a check. But that felt so unsatisfying.

“Let me think about things,” I said finally. “Let me figure out what I actually want to do. Because money is nice. But maybe I need to do more than that.”

Maybe I needed to actually get my hands dirty.

Chapter Eight

Despite the overwhelming temptation to stay inside and do absolutely nothing but enjoy each other, El-Mudad and I did get out to see Venice. We posed in front of all the sites and texted Neil tons of photos—some of things we hadn’t done in public. He didn’t have great cell reception where he was at, but he did manage to get a few texts through and, finally, a picture of himself, half-submerged in a thermal spring on a glacier.

“He has no sense of self-preservation,” El-Mudad said, shaking his head as I put my phone away.

“Tell me about it.” I paused. “I hope he didn’t drop his phone in there.”

El-Mudad took a final drink from his wine and pushed back from the table. We’d just practically gorged ourselves on yet another fantastic dinner prepared at the hands of our brilliant chef. I’d had no idea what Italian food was actually like. At this meal, there’d been nary a noodle in sight. Still, I’d carbed up good on some incredible bread. I could have laid my head on the table and taken a nap right there.

“You have tired eyes,” El-Mudad said with a slow smile. “Are you going to make it until midnight?”

“I have tired eyes because someone has exhausted me on this trip,” I pointed out, lifting my glass. “You’ll have to carry me to bed if you want me there.”

“Gladly.” He stood and dropped his napkin on his plate. “Did you want to venture out for the celebration?”

I shook my head. “No. It’s so cold out. Let’s stay all snuggly warm and watch from the balcony.”

“You intend to stay warm on the balcony?” He paced to the windows; the formal dining room had the same tall, pointed arches as the rest of the apartment’s views. It felt like we were in a castle, and El-Mudad certainly made a dashing fairytale prince.

I got up and went to stand beside him. “We could put on our PJs, get some hot chocolate, wrap up in blankets and sit outside like that.”

“You know I don’t wear pajamas, Sophie,” he said with a wicked grin. “Do you plan to freeze me to death?”

“Well, you can wear comfy clothes, then.” Of course, even El-Mudad’s t-shirts were tailored. He and Neil were perhaps the vainest humans I’d ever met.

And I lived with me.

“Comfortable clothes, then. But instead of hot chocolate, how about hot coffee?” he suggested. “Without sugar?”

I tilted my head and pretended to consider. As annoying as it was to have people around me act like the diabetes police, the truth was, I would probably need a whole pot of coffee to combat the soporific effects of my super full tummy. “Okay. I suppose so. Just this time.”

“Before we do, though...I have something for you.”

“It was just Christmas!” I protested. “You have to stop with the gifts.”

“Never,” he said firmly and took both of my hands to lead me past the absurdly long table and into the main salon. We walked past the piano, and he released me to pull one of the ornate wing chairs across the probably priceless terrazzo floor. I winced at the squeak and surreptitiously checked for a trail of scratches behind it. We were safe.

“Sit,” he ordered, and I did, folding my hands in my lap and watching him with expectation. He sat at the piano bench and opened the lid.

“My present is a private concert?” It was certainly better than another diamond or a pile of furs or something.

“Something like that.” He tested the pedals methodically and played a few scales to warm up. “I wrote a piece for you while we were apart this year.”

“Y-you...wrote me a song?” I stuttered in disbelief. “Nobody has ever written me a song before.”

“Not even your high school boyfriend, the one in the band?” El-Mudad asked with a sly sideways glance. “The one with, quote, ‘all the shit in his face’?”

I covered my face with both hands. “Why does my mother keep bringing that up to everyone?”

“It was your aunt. And it was in praise of Neil,” he clarified. “But yes, I wrote you a song. Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course!” What I really wanted to do was tackle him off the bench and fuck him right there on the floor with the ghost of Casanova probably critiquing our form, but I could do that after he played his composition for me.

He smiled and turned back to the keys. He hesitated, then faced me again. “And if you don’t like it...don’t tell me. It would break my heart.”