The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

“It’s yours, Elena. Keep it on you at all times.”

I wondered if this would be an inappropriate time to ask him to say please.

“Ace,” I read when I came across his name already programmed in my contacts. “Awfully presumptuous of you to put your number in my phone.”

I turned my head to see a small smile pull on his lips, but his gaze was focused on his work. “You’re a sure thing, wife.”

“Wife” should have been a sweet pet name for any man to call his fiancée, but the sardonic possessiveness of his tone ruined it. However, six months ago I’d realized I didn’t like sweet. Heat spread through me.

“I’m not your wife yet,” I told him.

“Semantics.” He glanced at my pink cheeks. “I’ve never seen a woman in the Cosa Nostra blush until you.”

He didn’t need to remind me.

“Does it bother you?”

“Not at all.” He pulled his gaze to his work, running a thumb across his jaw in a thoughtful way.

My breathing turned shallow, and I took a step toward the island, grasping the countertop. “Thank you for the coffeemaker and the phone.”

Sitting across from me, the dim lighting made his eyes look like burnt gold. “You’re welcome.”

Tension crept between us, finding its way between my legs and settling there like a heavy weight. I wanted to thank him in an entirely different way. I wanted to see what was beneath that white shirt. I wanted to know how much little effort it would take for him to hold me down. I wanted to put out this fire inside me that had been there since I’d met him. I wanted him.

His gaze found mine, and the gold blackened around the edges. My pulse pirouetted to a strange dance.

“You’re coming to work with me tonight.”

His indifferent tone broke the tension until it scattered to the corners of the room.

I exhaled. “Why?”

“I need Luca and I don’t trust anyone else to stay with you.”

I ignored the way that made me sound like a two-year-old. “Are you expecting trouble tonight?”

“I expect trouble every night.”

My brows pulled together. “And you want to drag me into it?”

“I’m not going to let you die.” His gaze flashed with dark amusement. “I’m just getting started with you.”

“One can’t paint New York as it is, but rather as it is felt.”

—Georgia O’Keeffe

THE CLOSEST THING I HAD to nightclub attire was a pair of skinny jeans and a loose, strappy top. It was white and shimmery, and the sleeves were cut on the sides, leaving thin strings connecting them to my wrist. Paired with my white heels that still lay near the back door, it would be passable.

As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I frowned at the curling iron in the second drawer. When I’d bathed this morning, I found cherry blo

ssom shampoo and soap already in the shower. Some woman visited enough she stockpiled toiletries. What would I do if he brought her home while I was here? Something bitter twisted in my stomach.

I tried to figure out why it bothered me so much. If it were Oscar Perez who brought another woman home, I would feel lucky for the reprieve. Though, with this man . . . the idea made my throat tighten with an unexplainable feeling.

I used the curling iron. And then I freshened my makeup but kept it light.

I was near the back door, slipping into my heels, when Nico came downstairs. I wished my uncertainty about that stupid woman’s shampoo would have dulled the sensation of how my body reacted to him. It thrummed at seeing him in a black suit with a sober expression that burned through my skin. His handsomeness was so classic it made me believe he could fit seamlessly into any time period.