Twenty-One #2
“I forgot,” he said, then paused some more as his eyes made their way back up my body.
When they met mine again, I shivered.
“Jesus, Shakespeare, a man needs a warning before you open a door, looking like that.”
Yep. Definitely not covering up.
“I forgot what I was wearing,” I told him. “Sorry. Uh, did you need something?”
“Yeah, I was thinking about you leaving tomorrow, and seeing as I didn’t know when we’d get a chance to see each other again, I thought …” He sighed and looked down the hallway. “I can’t concentrate on what I am saying with you in that thing.”
The flutters were all back now, and my nipples were hard. Which he’d see if he took a glance at them. This nightie didn’t hide much.
“I guess you don’t have that stained terry-cloth robe with you,” he said with a grin while still not looking at me.
“Nope. My cats, uh—bird likes to snuggle with it when I’m away.”
He chuckled. “Right. Well then, I guess I’ll have to endure it.”
I bit my bottom lip to keep from breaking into a massive grin. “Ransom, what did you come to ask me?”
“Uh, well, at the time, it sounded like a good idea. Now, I am questioning it.”
“What did?” I urged, wanting to hear it now more than before.
He rubbed his jawline. “I thought I’d sleep in here.”
I held in my shocked gasp, but my eyes widened. That couldn’t be helped. He wanted to sleep in bed with me? I wanted to shout out YES , but that would likely send him running out the front door until I was gone.
“And do what? Talk?” I asked, wanting more specifics on what it was he was thinking.
He cut his eyes to me. “Yeah, I figured until we fell asleep. If you go first, I can always go back to my room. I’m just … I’m going to miss having you around. I’ve enjoyed you being here.”
Lord, help my heart. He was killing me. Why did it have to be this way with the one man I wanted?
I stepped back so he could come into the room. “Talking will probably keep the bad thoughts away and help me sleep better,” I told him. Which was true. I’d go to sleep thinking of him and not my past.
He hesitated, then finally stepped into the room.
“I’ll stay on top of the covers,” he said with a crooked grin.
“You do that,” I replied. But I would rather you get those clothes off and get under them. “The jeans you have on don’t look comfortable. Where are your pajama pants?”
His eyes started to drift down my body again, and he stopped, wincing and looking away. “Could you go get in bed? Cover up.”
He’d most likely seen my nipples poking through the fabric. That was a tad bit embarrassing. Turning, I went back to the bed and sat down, then slid my feet under the covers and laid my head on the pillow before meeting his gaze again.
“Better?” I asked.
He bit his bottom lip, then shook his head. “Not really.”
I waited, and finally, he walked over to the other side and sat down on top of the covers, like he’d said he would. The only thing he’d taken off were his boots.
“Not going to change into your PJs?” I asked.
“Shakespeare, do I come across as someone who sleeps in PJs?”
Rolling my eyes, I turned over and tucked my hands under the pillow as I stared up at him. “Whatever you sleep in. Sweats or shorts. You know what I mean.”
He lay down across from me. “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t sleep in those. I don’t sleep in anything.”
Oh.
He smirked at my reaction. “I’m assuming you would rather I not get naked.”
Eh, he’d be wrong there.
“Yeah, better not do that.” I hadn’t even sounded believable.
He stretched out his long legs and crossed his arms behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.
“How much more of the book you’re working on do you have left?” he asked, changing the subject.
I never really knew. It all depended on the characters and where they took me. “Not sure. Maybe thirty thousand more words,” I guessed.
“I’d ask what man you’re using for inspiration for this one, but I don’t think I want to know.”
That was probably for the best. Since it was him. I feared it would always be him.
If he could change the subject, so could I.
“Other than run a distillery, what do you do? You know, with your organized crime and all,” I asked him.
We hadn’t spoken about it since he’d blurted it out to me without any warning. I was curious. I’d been trying to imagine the different guys in this house as characters in my favorite Mafia romance novels, but it wasn’t working. They didn’t fit the part. Especially Gathe.
“Mostly organize my cigars, have my fedoras dry-cleaned, and try to master an authentic Brooklyn accent.”
I reached for the extra pillow beside me and hit him with it while laughing.
“Hey! Okay, fine. I also spend a good bit of time going over a list of nicknames I want to be called,” he said, grabbing the pillow and tossing it to the floor.
“I’m being serious,” I told him.
He frowned. “I am too.”
Rolling my eyes, I continued staring at him, waiting for a real answer.
He blew out a breath, then stretched, which only flexed his biceps, causing my eyes to lock on them with fascination.
“I do what I’m told, Shakespeare. Follow orders.”
“From who?”
“The boss.”
I licked my bottom lip, knowing I should let this go because he didn’t look comfortable talking about it. But I wanted to know. Not because I was being nosy or I intended to use it in a book, but because it was his life.
“What kind of orders?”
He smirked but stared up at the ceiling and not at me. “Things that have to be handled.”
“That was vague,” I pointed out.
He nodded. “Yep.” Then he turned his head to glance at me. “I can’t tell you what we do, Shakespeare. And not because I don’t trust you. The more you know, the more danger that puts you in.”
My stomach knotted up. I didn’t like the reminder that he lived this secret side life, where he needed guns and there was a chance that he could be shot. Killed.
“You’ve gone pale. What is running through that creative brain of yours?”
“Things I wished that weren’t,” I replied.
He smiled at me. “You’re safe. Trust me. I make sure of it.”
I knew he wouldn’t put me in any harm’s way; besides, I lived in New York, not the South. It was him I was worried about.
“I hate guns,” I whispered.
“And I hate Fifth Avenue. But, hey, we all have our vices.”
The corner of my lips quirked, and if I wasn’t thinking about the things that could happen to him, I’d have laughed at that.
“Did you want this life? Or did you and Than not have a choice?”
He was silent for a moment before responding, “We’re born into it.
This life, the family—it is all we know.
It’s in our blood. It’s a bond that I can’t explain.
Than is my brother, but the other guys are too.
We are raised together. Train together …
yeah, I wanted it.” He said the last part as if he hadn’t ever questioned it before.
It was just a given. A part of who he was.
He turned to look at me again. “You’ve got a long day tomorrow. Close your eyes. Get some rest.”
I wanted to talk more. Look at him, listen to his voice. But he was right. I needed to sleep.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I probably should. Good night.”
He smiled and looked back at the ceiling. “Good night, Shakespeare.”