Chapter 11 #2
“Another couple of months, maybe. Depends on which parts are available.
Some of them are hard to find. I've got a guy in Miami who tracks down originals, but it takes time. I have an associate in Miami, Nik Malakov, who found me the original steering wheel. Took him six months.” He pauses.
“You should see it sometime. When it's finished.”
It's not quite an invitation… or is it? I should probably just take it as something he’d say in passing, but it makes my stomach flip anyway.
“Maybe,” I say.
“You ever work on cars?”
I almost laugh. “No. My father thought it wasn't appropriate for a DiMicheli woman to get her hands dirty. At least not literally.”
“But figuratively?”
"Figuratively, I've been covered in dirt since I was old enough to understand what the family business actually was.” I shake my head at the irony.
“Twenty-two years spent building something clean.
Something legitimate. And now I'm running the very thing I tried to escape.
But you don't get to choose your family.”
“No. You don't.”
We keep running, an understanding between us. We're both products of fathers who saw us as pieces on a board. Who still see us and use us that way. And we’re both trying to figure out who we are outside of that, wondering if we can ever really exist fully outside of it.
Dammit, I don't want to have things in common with him. It's easier if he's just the enemy, the obligation.
But he's not making it easy.
We run the last few blocks in silence. The city is starting to wake up around us. Delivery trucks rumble, a couple of joggers pass us by.
We reach his building and stop outside the entrance. I'm barely winded. Lochlan is drenched in sweat, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, breathing like he just finished a marathon.
“That was...” He pauses to catch his breath and straightens up. “Fuck, that was brutal.”
Despite myself, I smile. “That was my easy pace.”
“Your easy pace should be illegal.”
“Yeah, but you kept up,” I say.
“Barely. I thought I was gonna keel over at least five different times.”
“But you didn’t.”
He meets my eyes and a jolt of electricity shoots to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my hair. He shouldn’t be looking at me like that. Not now, not ever. And I definitely shouldn’t be wanting him to.
“I told you,” he says. “Where you go, I go. That's the deal.”
“That's the job,” I correct.
“Sure.” He holds the door open for me. “Let's call it that.”
I walk past him into the lobby. Close enough to catch his scent, sweat mixed with a scent of spice and leather and man.
Oooh, it’s good. So good, it makes my knees wobble, and my lungs fight to pull in as much as they can hold.
We don’t talk during the elevator ride. I try not to think about how good he smells, even after that run. Or how good he looks, for that matter. I swallow a gasp. Jesus, what must I look like right now?
I wrap a hand around my ponytail and tug on it, hyperaware of his presence.
He's not what I expected. And I don't know what to do with that.
When the elevator door to the penthouse opens, Reaper jumps up, barking, tail going wild. He launches himself at Lochlan, then redirects to me like he can't decide who he's happier to see.
“Down,” I say, trying to be stern.
He does not go down. At all. He just pushes his head against my leg, whining, waiting.
“He missed you,” Lochlan says.
“He's known me for six hours. It’s not possible.”
“Doesn't matter. You're his person now.” Lochlan shrugs. “Like it or not.”
"I can’t be—" I stop and let out a sigh, my shoulder slumping as Reaper looks up at me with those ridiculous brown eyes, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, and something inside me softens the tiniest bit, totally against my will.
I lower myself to my knees and look at him.
"Fine. I acknowledge your existence. Happy? " I say to him.
Then I give him two pats. He acts like I've handed him the moon and he leaps at me. I stumble backward into the wall.
“Whoa, boy. Easy.” Lochlan's mouth twitches as he offers me a hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. “He's easy to please.”
“Clearly,” I say, smoothing down the front of my t-shirt.
I step around the dog and head for the hallway. “I'm going to shower. And then I have approximately fourteen hours of work to do before the world finds out I got married and everything explodes.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It's going to be a nightmare. My board is probably freaking out.
My clients will have concerns. And that's before I deal with my father's people.” I pause and turn back.
“I need to call Vincenzo. The capos are going to want answers.
I should have him arrange a meeting to send the message that someone's actually in charge.”
“You want me there? When that happens?” Lochlan takes off his cap and flips it around so it’s backward when he puts it back on. Holy crap, I didn’t think it was possible for him to look better.
Focus, Adriana. He asked you a question.
Yes, a question that surprises me. He's not assuming. He's actually asking.
“To be honest, I don't know yet,” I admit. “I need to think about how I want to present this. Us.”
“I get it.” He nods. But there’s no argument. No wounded ego to stroke. “Let me know what you decide.”
I should just go. Shower. Start tackling the mountain of problems waiting for me. But something makes me linger, watching him.
“Thanks,” I say. “For keeping up.”
He leans against the kitchen island, his face red, jaw covered in stubble, looking at me with those blue eyes that see too much.
“Anytime, wife.”
I should hate it. The way he says that word. The way it sounds wrapped in his voice, all warm and teasing and entirely too familiar.
I don't hate it as much as I should.
And that's the problem.