Chapter 11 Sierra
SIERRA
My heart is still racing when we get into the truck.
One kiss. One stupid, accidental brush of lips that lasted maybe two seconds, and my entire body is lit up like a Vegas marquee. I can still feel the ghost of his mouth against mine, the brief scratch of stubble, the warmth of his breath.
Pull it together, Sierra.
I steal a glance at Matteo as he starts the engine. His jaw is set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. The man could be plotting murder or contemplating what to have for dinner, and his expression would be identical.
“Did you post the picture?” he asks.
Right. The picture. The whole reason we were pressed together in the first place.
I pull out my phone and stare at the image of us. Our faces are close, my smile bright and his almost, almost there. We look like a real couple. Like people who actually chose each other.
My thumb hovers over the share button.
This is it. Once I post this, there’s no taking it back. Viktor will see it. My family will see it. The entire world will know that Sierra Dixon is engaged to a man she met less than two weeks ago.
At least my family already knows. I called my parents last night to warn them, spinning some story about following my heart and knowing when it’s right. They were shocked. Maybe even a little worried. But they love me enough to want to believe it, and that made lying to them so much worse.
I hit post before I can talk myself out of it.
“Done.” I tuck my phone into my pocket like it might bite me.
The muscles in my shoulders coil tight, and I catch myself scanning the street outside the truck. Looking for what? Viktor’s car? A threat that probably isn’t there yet?
“I’m nervous,” I admit, hating how small my voice sounds. “What if Viktor reacts right away? What if he’s watching my social media and comes to my apartment?”
“I promised to keep you safe.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like protecting someone from a violent stalker is just another item on his to-do list, right between fixing motorcycles and brooding mysteriously.
“I’m not taking you home,” he adds.
“What? Where are we going?”
“You have the night off. I’m hungry.” He glances at me, and something in his expression softens by a fraction. “You ever had real Italian food?”
“Does Stouffer’s lasagna count?”
He lets out a huff that sounds like it wants to be a laugh, and it hits me somewhere south of my navel. I squeeze my thighs together and look out the window.
“No,” he replies. “It really doesn’t.”
The restaurant is inside a casino, and the moment we step through the doors, I understand that this is Matteo’s territory.
Two men flank the entrance like sentinels, and they both incline their heads as we pass.
Matteo’s hand settles on the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I shouldn’t like it this much. The possessive weight of his palm. The way people look at him and then at me, probably wondering who I am and why I’m with him.
But I do like it. God help me, I do.
Inside, the smell of garlic and melting cheese wraps around me, and my stomach growls loud enough that I pray Matteo didn’t hear it.
The hostess leads us to a table against the wall, her eyes darting to Matteo every few seconds like she’s afraid he might bite. I remember feeling that way about him. The size of him, the permanent scowl, the dangerous energy that radiates off him like heat from asphalt.
I’m not sure I feel that way anymore.
I don’t know when it changed. Maybe it was the way he touched my bruises so gently in the alley, like he was angry at the marks but careful with my skin.
Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Viktor never gave me choices.
He told me where we were going, what I was wearing, when I was allowed to speak.
But Matteo asked. He made this whole insane plan sound like something I could walk away from, even when we both knew I was desperate.
He handed me the power to say no and actually meant it.
Or maybe it was fifteen minutes ago, when his lips touched mine and the whole world went sideways.
“So.” I scan the menu when the waitress leaves with our drink orders. “What do you recommend? If this is my introduction to the real thing, I want to do it right.”
“Osso buco. Braised veal shanks in a rich gravy.” The permanent scowl softens, and for half a second, he almost looks... happy?
“Your eyes just lit up.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“They absolutely did. You looked almost giddy for a second there.”
He scowls, but there’s no heat in it. “Order the damn food.”
I order the osso buco. So does he.
The waitress brings wine for me and water for him, along with a basket of bread and breadsticks. I reach for one at the same time Matteo does, and our fingers brush.
The contact zips through me like an electric current. My breath catches. His eyes darken, and for one long, suspended moment, neither of us moves.
Then I grab the breadstick and shove it in my mouth because apparently that’s how I handle sexual tension now.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say around a mouthful of bread. Classy, Sierra. Real classy.
Matteo shrugs. “Not much to tell.”
“Come on. One hobby. Besides fixing motorcycles.”
He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s going to blow me off. But then he says, “I swim. Most mornings.”
I feel like I just won a prize. “I love swimming. I was on the team in high school. Not a star or anything, but I liked it.” I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand. “Now I do classes. Yoga. Pilates. Spin. I like to mix it up.”
“You like trying new things.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Life’s too short to be bored.”
Dinner arrives, and I take my first bite of the osso buco. The meat is so tender it practically dissolves on my tongue, rich and savory and absolutely nothing like anything I’ve ever microwaved.
“Oh my God,” I moan.
Matteo’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth. His pupils dilate.
I pretend not to notice.
But I notice. I notice the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his knuckles have gone white around his fork.
We talk while we eat, or rather, I talk and occasionally pry information out of him with the persistence of a dental extraction. He doesn’t have a favorite book or TV show. He’s been to Italy twice.
“Italy.” I sigh. “I’m so jealous. The art, the history, the fashion. And obviously, the food.”
I gesture at my plate, and his smile—small, barely there—does something to my insides.
“Glad you like it,” he says. “Maybe we should have it at the wedding.”
The wedding.
I look down at the ring on my finger. “Oh God. We have to plan an actual wedding, don’t we?”
Before he can answer, a couple approaches our table. The man is tall and dark-haired, with the same dangerous energy as Matteo. The woman is beautiful, her smile warm and genuine.
My body tenses automatically, and I glance at Matteo for confirmation.
He gives a slight nod.
Safe.
“Sierra, this is Alessio and his wife, Nina. Alessio and I work together.”
Work together. I bite back a smile at the understatement. Like they carpool to an office park instead of... whatever it is Matteo actually does.
“This is my fiancée, Sierra,” Matteo adds.
Neither of them look surprised.
Alessio extends his hand, a dimple showing in his cheek when he smiles. “Nice to meet you. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” My smile feels plastered on, but Alessio doesn’t seem to notice.
“We’re on a date,” Alessio says, turning back to Matteo. “Just wanted to come say hi.”
“No, you didn’t,” Nina counters, elbowing him. “Your exact words were, ‘We only have a sitter for one night, and I don’t want to waste it talking to someone I see every day.’”
Her impression of his voice is spot-on, and I laugh as Alessio glowers.
“I wanted to meet Sierra,” Nina says, squeezing my shoulder. “If you need help with wedding stuff, let me know.”
“Thanks. I will.”
After they leave, I turn to Matteo. “They already knew about the engagement?”
“They know the truth, Sierra. They know it’s fake.”
Oh.
Right.
Of course they do.
Something tightens behind my ribs. I take a sip of wine and blame the tannins.
It’s only my family who believes the lie. Only the rest of the world who will think this is real.
Outside, the city blazes with neon and noise. Tourists flood the sidewalks, phones raised, capturing everything. Matteo opens the truck door for me, and I climb inside, suddenly exhausted.
As we pull away from the casino, I steal a glance at Matteo. His jaw is set, eyes on the road, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Whether he expected any of this to get so complicated.
I know I didn’t.
When we reach my apartment building, Matteo turns off the engine.
“I’m staying over tonight.”
“Wow. Forward of you.” I press a hand to my chest. “At least you bought me dinner first.”
“On your couch.”
“And what if I say no?”
He turns to look at me, and something in his expression softens. Just a little. Just enough that I see the man beneath the scowl.
“Then I’ll sit in my truck outside your building all night. Your choice.”
I think about arguing. Sure, I feel more comfortable around him now, but I’m not sure how I feel about him spending the night in my apartment.
But the truth is, I’m scared. Viktor could be watching my social media right now. He could be on his way here.
“Fine,” I eye him. “But I’m warning you, my couch is not designed for giants.”
My apartment is small and bright, decorated in colors that make me happy. Matteo looks hilariously out of place among my throw pillows and fairy lights, this massive, dangerous man standing in my cheerful little living room.
I bring him a pillow and blanket from the linen closet. He’s already removed his shoes and placed his gun on the end table beside the couch. His legs are curled up to fit, and he looks uncomfortable as hell.
“Thanks,” I say. “For staying.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Good night, Matteo.”
“Good night, Sierra.”
I go into my bedroom and close the door behind me. Then I stand there, staring at the lock.
He’s here. Twenty feet away. Armed and alert and ready to protect me from whatever comes through that door.
I feel safe.
And that’s exactly the problem.
I felt safe with Viktor too. In the beginning, when he opened doors and brought me flowers and looked at me like I was something precious. I trusted my gut then, and my gut was dead wrong.
My fingers find the lock.
I don’t think Matteo is like Viktor. I really don’t. But I didn’t think Viktor was like Viktor either. Not until it was too late.
It’s not about Matteo. It’s about me. About the part of me that’s broken now, the part that doesn’t know if I can tell the difference between real safety and the pretty lie that comes before everything falls apart.
I turn the lock.
Maybe someday I won’t need to.
Tonight isn’t that night.