Chapter 9
chapter nine
LEO
I thought the hardest part of the night would be making our way through the onslaught of paparazzi blocking our path from the limousine to the gallery door. But I underestimated how boring it would be listening to people drivel on about artwork as if they truly pay attention to any of it.
They don’t seem to notice the look in the eyes of the woman whose portrait hangs in front of us; they only talk of how beautiful she is. But I think she looks pained.
I never used to pay much attention to art.
I always liked it, sure, but I never delved into the weight of the strokes or the emotions etched into the canvas.
Not until Isla came into my life, that is.
I’d never heard anyone speak about art the way she does—with so much conviction, so much curiosity.
It’s hard not to get swept up into the world she opens your eyes to.
It’s hard not to look for the hidden messages in each frame we wander past.
But Marisol seems happy. She doesn’t flinch when people inevitably bring up Jack.
She stays poised, giving polite smiles and brushing the comments away with a professional ease.
She has far more self-control than I do.
I’ve had to bite my tongue so many times, I’m surprised it’s not bleeding.
But this is her night, her chance to restore her image even a little bit. I won’t do anything to ruin it for her.
Nevertheless, I’m not good with fake smiles.
She squeezes my arm where her hand is cradled in my elbow as the man in front of us holds out his hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Romano.”
I blink myself out of my daze as I shake his hand. “It’s Leo.”
“Well, Leo.” He pulls his arm back, shaking his head in wonder as he looks at Marisol. “I don’t know how you managed to win over our sweetheart here”—his eyes rake down her body, and a cold sense of entirely inappropriate protectiveness stiffens my spine—“but well played.”
I can feel my jaw feather as my teeth grind together. He talks as if she’s a trophy to be won. Maybe one he has been playing to win for a while.
I feel the sudden urge to send my head straight into his as he leans in, his voice low.
“Perfect timing, too, to save her when she’s out in the cold.
Let me know when you tire of her.” He chuckles as he steps back, that appreciative gaze rolling down her body once more.
God, how badly I want to fuck up his face right now.
But I can’t.
I drop Marisol’s arm, only to slip my own around her waist. I can feel her sharp intake of breath where her ribs flare beneath my palm.
“I fell in love with this girl when I was eighteen,” I say over her head, and I have to force myself not to react when her hands slide over mine. “I’ll never tire of her.”
The man whose name I never cared to get doesn’t do a good job of masking his surprise, his gaze now assessing as he stares at the place where our skin connects.
Marisol slips her fingers between mine, and as if that movement alone convinces him, he excuses himself and disappears through the crowd without another word.
Marisol lets out a long breath, unwrapping herself from my hold as soon as he’s out of sight. “I am so sorry,” she says.
I have to stop myself from reaching for her again. “Sorry for what?”
“For him.” She gestures toward where the man slipped into the fray. “I should’ve known he would say something disgusting. He’s always been that way inclined.”
I shake my head. “It’s not your job to predict how someone else will act. Don’t ever apologize for someone else’s actions.” Her lips part as her eyes search my face, as if she doesn’t know what to make of that statement.
I pull her arm back into mine, and we begin wandering around the room once more. “You seem genuinely interested in this stuff,” she says after a moment. “Or are you that good of an actor?”
Has she not seen my face?
“No, I do like it.” I shrug. “I find that the more you look at art, the more interesting it becomes.” When I look down, her brows are pulled together with amusement. “What?”
Her smile widens. “It’s just…you don’t have a single piece of art—or even a photo—in your entire apartment.”
“Yeah, well…” I never really thought about it until she mentioned it. “I don’t know. That place never exactly felt like home to me. I guess that’s why I never put much thought into decorating.”
Not that I wasn’t there for years. It was home, for a while anyway. It just never felt that way. Like somewhere deep down, I always knew I’d leave, even though at the time, I thought that the security firm would be my future, my legacy. Just not that apartment.
“Marisol!” A woman comes bounding toward us. Her perfect little bob bouncing as she lands in front of us and pulls Marisol toward her, giving her dramatic little air kisses on either cheek.
“Tu sei Leo, vero?” she asks and holds her hand out between us. I pick it up and shake it, and she almost looks disappointed that I didn’t drop a knee and kiss the back of her hand.
“Sì,” I reply with a nod. She’s not the first person here tonight to have already known my name, but it doesn’t get any less jarring.
“Viola, how are you?” Marisol asks.
“Wonderful now that you’re here. This is so utterly boring.” Rough.
Marisol glances up at me. “I don’t know, we are kind of enjoying it.”
Viola scoffs. “Of course you are. Look at you two. You’re so in love with each other, I think you would have fun in any situation.”
Marisol giggles—one of her nervous ones—but Viola must recognize it as embarrassment because she smiles, her eyes roaming over us before she catches sight of someone over Marisol’s shoulder.
“Oh! Francois!” She brushes a hand over Marisol’s shoulder as she slides away.
Marisol giggles as we watch Viola sweep a man—Francois—into a conversation. “Well, at least we know our plan is working.”
I blink a few times, remembering myself. “Yeah. True.”
Tapping on the mic echoes through the room, and my attention falls upon a woman standing on a small stage in the corner, her smile bright as she looks out over the gathered crowd.
“Should we get out of here?” Marisol says, dragging my attention down to where she stands in front of me.
“Isn’t this the most important part?” I say. I assumed we would stay for the auction part of the charity auction.
“Do you really want to stand here watching people splash their cash on artwork for the better part of an hour?” As if she can already see the answer in my eyes, she grins, and hell if I’ll do anything to see her face light up like that again.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
The sound of Marisol giggling as we slide into the limo has me fighting a ridiculous grin.
We managed to miss the paparazzi by escaping out the back of the gallery. The photographers are probably on a dinner break as they wait for everyone to pour out those front doors later tonight.
I whisper directions to the driver before sinking back into the leather chair next to Marisol. She grunts as she kicks off her shoes before throwing her legs over my lap. “God, I forgot how much I hate those heels.” She lies back, a hand over her head.
Part of me adores how comfortable she is around me, that she doesn’t even hesitate to drape herself over me, and the other part of me bristles at the fact.
Because it reminds me that she sees me only as her brother’s friend.
The jokester, the security guy, the boy who danced with her on stage as a teenager. Her friend.
She didn’t flinch when I told that sad excuse for a man that I fell in love with her when I was eighteen. Either it’s because she thought it was nothing but a lie to get him off our backs, or she’s always known but ignores it in favor of our friendship. I’m not sure which is worse.
She sits up, her brows drawn as she looks at me. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing, just thinking about work stuff.” She doesn’t acknowledge the blatant lie. She simply pulls her legs from my lap and straightens her dress.
I curse myself for making her feel uncomfortable, but I suddenly find myself unsure of how to act around her. I knew what I was getting into with this. I knew exactly what I was signing up for. I need to remind myself of that.
“We’re here, sir,” the driver says over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I say as Marisol’s brows furrow.
“That was too quick a ride to get to my place,” she says, confused.
“That’s because we aren’t at your place,” I say. I slip out of the car as she puts her death trap shoes back on and steps out. I hold my hand out for her beyond my better judgement. She takes it without hesitation before she stares at the building in front of us.
“Leo,” she laughs. “What are we doing here?”
I pull her along with me as I walk up to the door of the fast-food restaurant. “I’m hungry. Tell me you don’t feel like some fries right now?”
I swear her eyes sparkle, but then she’s shaking her head. “I’m not really hungry.”
“Okay,” I say even as her nostrils flare. “Well, I am. Keep me company?” Her eyes dart around my face, but then she nods. It’s not like she has much choice. I pull on the door before bowing my head. “Ladies first,” I say, gesturing toward the open entrance.
She snorts before walking into the dimly lit restaurant. I walk in after her and stand before the big menu boards. They slide through different burger combos and images of gigantic drinks, all of which leave me feeling ten times as ravenous as I was before.
“I’ll find us a seat,” Marisol says.
“You sure you don’t want anything?” I double-check.
“Yeah.” She nods as she heads for the blue booths lining the walls. “I’m good.”
I quickly order with the young man whose eyes keep darting to where Marisol is sitting. I can’t exactly blame him. She looks gorgeous tonight. She always looks gorgeous.