Chapter Twenty-nine #2
I don’t understand a word of it, but I catch Moretti and her disapproving tone, so I assume she just threatened to kick Lorenzo’s ass on my behalf. I can’t help but smile. I already love this woman.
Before I can respond, a deep, familiar voice cuts through the room.
“I see you’ve met Bianca.”
I look up, and there he is.
Lorenzo stands across the kitchen, his sharp blue gaze locked onto mine, unwavering. Bianca, to my delight, glares at him, but it does nothing to wipe the smirk off his stupidly perfect face.
And God help me, he’s beautiful.
Does this man ever have an ugly day?
His black shirt is unbuttoned just enough to tease at the sculpted planes of his chest, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms, the sluttiest thing a man can possibly do, in my opinion.
The ink on his skin and the veins running along his hands only add to the problem.
His dark hair is a mess, like he’s just run his hands through it, and he moves toward me with slow, effortless confidence, like he owns the air in this room.
He doesn’t sit across from me. No, of course not. He pulls out the chair beside mine and takes his place right next to me.
Bianca hums disapprovingly but still sets down our plates with care. My stomach growls, and I instantly regret it because he hears it. His lips twitch, amusement flashing in his eyes as he looks at me. I roll my eyes, which only makes him smirk more.
Bianca has made lasagna, and it smells like heaven. I swear, I’d move into this house just to eat whatever she makes every day.
“I hope you’ll like it!” she says, her voice warm and proud.
Lorenzo gives her a small nod of approval, and we both start eating. The first bite melts in my mouth, rich and savory, and I nearly moan. Oh my God, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
Lorenzo, meanwhile, pours us both glasses of wine like this is some kind of intimate dinner date.
I sip it cautiously, the smooth taste pairing perfectly with the meal, and suddenly I’m thinking that this might be the best dinner I’ve had in weeks, no, months.
And that includes the fancy, Michelin-starred restaurants I’ve been forced to endure with my family.
I glance at Lorenzo, realizing he hasn’t eaten much. Instead, his eyes are fixed on me, watching every movement I make, every shift in my expression.
Before I can ask what his problem is, he does something completely unexpected.
With zero warning, he reaches over and pulls my chair closer to his.
I fold. Just like that.
His presence, his gaze, the way he effortlessly invades my space, it’s too much. He leans back lazily in his chair, exuding that insufferable dominance he carries everywhere, and just looks at me.
The air between us is charged, thick with tension I don’t understand but can’t ignore.
I break the silence first. “Care to explain why you kidnapped me?” I ask, arching a brow, trying to sound unimpressed despite the way my pulse is hammering.
Lorenzo leans in, tilting my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. His touch is gentle, but his grip tells me he’s in control.
His lips curve into something dark and wicked.
“No.”
Is he serious right now?
I stare at him, my heartbeat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “I’m serious. Why am I here, Lorenzo?”
His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering, unreadable. “Because I want you to be here.”
And just like that, before I can even argue, before I can demand more than that maddeningly vague response, he stands, reaches for me, and lifts me into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Lorenzo—” My words die in my throat as he strides effortlessly through the house.
I should fight him. I should demand he put me down.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let myself melt into the warmth of his body, my cheek pressed against his chest. His scent wraps around me, woodsy, clean, intoxicating. I hate how safe I feel.
I hate that I don’t want him to let me go.
He carries me into his living room, and I blink at my surroundings.
A whole wall of glass stretches across the space, revealing the same breathtaking forest view.
Trees stretch endlessly into the night, the moonlight casting silver streaks through the branches.
The entire place feels too open, too exposed, like even the world outside is watching whatever is happening between us.
He sets me down gently on the massive sofa before disappearing for a moment.
When he returns, my breath catches.
A blanket. My favorite snacks, gingerbread. And then, as if this night couldn’t get any more bizarre, he turns on The Notebook.
I freeze.
My lips part in shock as the familiar opening scene plays, the soft melody filling the room.
I whip my head toward him, glaring. “How do you know this is my favorite movie?”
He knows I’ve caught on. He knows I see him now.
And then, the bastard winks.
Oh. My. Gosh.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I hate the way my stomach flutters. I should be horrified. I should question how the hell he knows these things.
Instead, I feel warmth.
And I hate him for it.
Without a word, Lorenzo slides onto the couch beside me, his movements effortless. He pulls me against him, wrapping the blanket around me as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. Like I belong here, with him.
His fingers move lazily, tracing soft, absentminded circles along my arm, then my shoulder, then my neck. His touch barely grazes my skin, yet I feel it everywhere.
I could stay like this forever. In his arms.
The thought terrifies me.
His voice rumbles against my hair, low and commanding. “Tell me about you.”
His hand moves again, slowly caressing my arm, like he’s lulling me into answering.
“You probably already know everything about me,” I murmur, tilting my head to meet his gaze.
The smirk that tugs at his lips tells me I’m right.
I should push him away. I should. But instead, I shift slightly, narrowing my eyes.
“Tell me what you know about me,” I challenge, tilting my chin up. “Then I’ll tell you what you got wrong.”
“Besides the obvious, I know that you hate your job.” His voice is smooth, confident, like he’s laying out facts written in stone. My body stiffens slightly against him, but I don’t dare move. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words affect me.
Lorenzo continues, his lips curling slightly, “Your closest friend is that wild model that follows you around all the time.”
I can’t help but let out a soft laugh at his description of Sienna. Wild model? Yeah, that checks out.
“I know your favorite food is burgers and chips, how you British girls call fries,” he drawls, his accent deliberately exaggerating the word ‘chips’ like he finds it amusing.
I open my mouth to argue, to call him out on how ridiculous this is, but he isn’t finished.
“I know that every time you smile, there’s a small dimple on your right cheek.” His gaze flickers down to my lips, lingering a second too long. My breath catches.
“I know you spend most of your time reading,” he continues, “and that you always order a decaf caramel latte with oat milk.”
My heart skips a beat.
How the hell does he know that?
He doesn’t stop. He just watches me, amused, entertained by my shock.
“I know that most of the time, you’re all rainbows and unicorns, going to work, then to the gym.”
I swallow hard.
He’s been watching me.
Or worse, he has people watching me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but the worst part?
I don’t feel scared.
I feel exposed.
Like he’s peeling back the layers of me, one by one, leaving me bare under his gaze.
Then, his expression shifts, his smirk fades, replaced by something darker, something colder.
His eyes roam over my face, slower this time.
“And I know how much makeup you usually wear.”
I freeze.
His fingers graze my cheek, soft, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at me now.
“Tonight, you’re wearing more than usual.” His voice is lower now, sharper. “And I want to know why.”
My stomach twists painfully. The room suddenly feels too small, too quiet.
The bruise.
My father’s envelope burns in my bag, but my body burns under Lorenzo’s stare.
I can’t let him see it.
I can’t let him know.
I shift slightly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Maybe I just wanted to look good tonight.”
His jaw tightens, and I can tell, he doesn’t believe me.
He doesn’t need to say it.
His silence is enough.