Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty Five
Antonio
I zip the duffel closed and leave the laptop where it is for now.
Surveillance can wait until she’s asleep.
I can be quiet when I need to be. But right now, Elsa doesn’t need me prowling around her apartment. She needs something that feels normal. Something that reminds her she’s still in her own home and not in the middle of a chess match she never agreed to play.
She’s still sitting on the couch, perched like she might bolt if I blink too hard. One leg tucked under her, arms tight, eyes too alert for a woman who should be relaxing after a long day.
I keep my voice light on purpose.
“Have you eaten?”
Her eyes flick to me like she didn’t expect the question. Like she expected me to keep talking about doors and windows and threats.
“No,” she says, and there’s a faint grimace that makes her look younger. “Not really. I was just going to… pull out some leftovers.”
“That doesn’t sound like a plan,” I say.
“It was a plan,” she argues automatically, then exhales. “An easy one. I guess it won’t be enough now, though.”
She slides off the couch and walks to the kitchen, and my gaze wants to follow her legs because my eyes have a mind of their own, but I drag them away and plant them somewhere neutral.
She opens the fridge.
I don’t have to get close to see it. The door swings wide, and the light spills out, and even from where I’m standing, I can tell there’s not much in there that qualifies as dinner.
A couple of containers shoved to one side.
Drinks. Condiments. The kind of “I’m home occasionally” fridge, not the kind of “I cook” fridge.
She stares for a beat too long, like the fridge might produce a solution.
Then she closes it halfway, keeping her hand on the edge of the door.
“I can’t really cook,” she says, and the sheepishness in her voice is so out of character from the woman who can stare down a boardroom without missing a beat that it almost hits me like a small punch.
“I mean… I can, technically. Like, if the other choice was starving to death. But it’s not good.”
I lean back against the couch, keeping it casual.
“Why not?”
Her shoulders lift in a small shrug that’s trying to make it nothing. “We traveled a lot when I was growing up. Restaurants, hotels, room service. It was just… always easier.”
I nod once like it makes perfect sense, because it does. And because I can hear what she isn’t saying out loud—how being raised always in motion makes certain things optional.
“I can cook something,” I say.
Her head turns, fast, surprise breaking through her nerves for the first time since I walked in with those bags.
“You can cook?”
I smile at her surprise. “Yes.”
She studies me like she’s waiting for the punchline.
I give it to her. “My mother insisted we learned so we wouldn’t be a burden on some poor woman one day.”
Amusement flickers in her eyes.
“That sounds like quite a task,” she says.
“Lord knows we made it harder than it had to be,” I tell her. “But she was a determined woman.”
She huffs a small laugh, and it eases something in the room, just a fraction. Then she looks back into the fridge like the reality is still sitting there, unimpressed.
“I would love to see that,” she says, and the words are almost sincere, almost warm. Then her mouth tightens again. “But I don’t really have anything to cook either. I was out of town for a while and…”
I can see the embarrassment in the way she shifts her weight and taps her fingers against the fridge door, so I decide not to mention that she’s been back in town for at least two weeks.
I keep my tone easy. No judgment. No big deal.
“Then we order something.”
She closes the fridge and turns to face me fully, suspicion coming back. “Is that… all right? Safety-wise.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll make sure it is.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s relief in them.
She walks to a drawer beside the island, pulls it open and lifts out a thick stack of takeout menus instead.
She carries them over and drops them on the coffee table with a small thud, then shrugs like she’s daring me to judge her.
“I’m just a really bad cook,” she says, sheepish again.
I look at the menus, then back at her.
“You’re not a bad cook,” I say, flipping the top menu open like I’m evaluating it with the seriousness of a contract. “You’re an untrained cook.”
Her brows lift. “Is there a difference?”
“Yeah,” I say, standing. “Bad is hopeless. Untrained just means somebody hasn’t taught you yet.”
She crosses her arms, wary of where that’s going. “Are you volunteering?”
I let my mouth twitch. “We’ll have the time,” I say, and watch her reaction carefully at the reminder of all the time we’ll be spending together. Alone. “It’d be a shame not to make use of it.”
Her eyes flash heat and drop to my lips quickly before coming back to my eyes. It takes everything in me not to pull her to me and dive into those lush lips of hers.
“You’re pushing,” she says, voice husky.
I take one slow step closer, not crowding—just lessening the space between us a fraction.
“Well, I’m pretty determined myself,” I say.
“Determined how?”
“To teach you to cook,” I say, letting my smile spread at her breathless tone. “What else?”
Her breath expels on a laugh that doesn’t feel like humor at all.
“You’re trouble,” she murmurs. “Stop looking at me like that.”
I lick my lips, and her eyes drop again.
“Like what?” I ask, pleased.
“Like you’re about to…” Her throat works as she swallows.
“Like I’m about to kiss you?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Like that.”
I reach out and touch the still-damp ends of her hair. Her breath stutters out.
“I can’t help it, dolcezza,” I murmur. “It’s all I’ve thought about for weeks.”
“Rules.” The word snaps out of her, almost desperately. “We need rules.”
“What rules?” I tilt my head, letting the words brush the air between us. The way I want to brush my lips on her skin.
“You’re here for security,” she says too fast. “That’s it.”
My thumb drifts along the damp strand of her hair, just below her jaw. I want to run my fingers along her throat when she swallows nervously.
“Hands off,” she snaps out.
I lift a brow but lower my hand. “Okay, but not when it comes to safety.”
“Okay,” she says. “Fine, yeah.”
When she goes silent, I say, “Anything else?”
“No—no flirting. We keep this… normal.”
I let out a low breath that turns into a laugh. “That’s awfully vague,” I say, my voice going deep and low. “What does that mean? Be specific. Because if you leave it blurry, I’m going to fill in the gaps.”
Her pulse jumps at her throat. I watch it, fascinated. I want to set my teeth against it and feel it jump and throb against my tongue.
“No pet names,” she says, her voice stuttering as much as her pulse. “No—” She swallows, and her voice drops a fraction. “No comments about my legs. Or my mouth. Or anything related to my body.”
I let my gaze slide to her lips anyway, slow enough that she notices. “So I’m allowed to look,” I murmur, “but I’m not allowed to say what I want to do with what I’m looking at.”
Her cheeks flare with color. “No looking.”
I lift both brows, amused. “It’s going to be awfully difficult not to look at your legs if you keep wearing these tiny shorts. I have a strong will, but even I can’t do that.”
Her jaw sets. “Suffer quietly.”
I laugh, delighted with her. “Fine,” I say. “No flirting.”
“And no kissing,” she says.
I lean in just enough that my words whisper against her lips without touching them. She holds perfectly still. “Starting now? Or do I get a chance to change your mind?”
“Starting now.” Her voice is practically a sigh.
Without another word, I step back and let my eyes drift back to her throat to watch her pulse jump again.
“Whatever you wish, Elsa,” I say, then take another step back. I lean down to tap the menus with one finger. “Pick a spot. Order me anything with red meat. I’m going to clean up. I’ll be out before it gets here.”
I walk to my duffel bag and pick it up before walking across the living area.
I stop and look back at her. She hasn’t moved a muscle. “You should know, I’m not much of a rule follower. For your sake, however, I’ll be good. But only until you break one. Then… all bets are off.”
I see a flush work its way over her skin and stop myself from dropping my eyes to her legs, her breasts.
“If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.” I wink. “I’ll keep the door unlocked.”
Then I turn and continue into the hallway, grinning widely.
I need a cold shower. A really cold shower.