THIRTY-ONE #2
‘Rest up if you want,’ he said, not quite looking at me.
I didn’t argue. Didn’t banter to keep it light. His offer was mercy disguised as suggestion – a chance to look away, to gather what was left of my composure before it cracked in his presence.
And I was sure he needed the distance too – maybe more than I did.
But I couldn’t leave it there. The silence was beginning to feel cruel.
As his hand moved to the gear stick, I reached for it.
Just a touch. Intentional. Light – as though checking how much the outline of a bruise hurt.
His head turned sharply, eyes locking with mine as a wild strand of hair fell over his forehead. The sunlight caught him through the windscreen, streaking gold through the rich, earthy brown of his irises. And for a second, he looked breakable.
‘We’ll have Salvatore’s address by the end of the day,’ I assured him quietly, trying to turn the moment around.
He inhaled a long, laboured breath. Then looked down where our skin met – his hand beneath mine.
Warm.
‘You’ll get more answers.’ I added.
He inclined his head – slow, almost distracted. ‘Answers are good.’
I let the moment breathe, let the weight of what we weren’t saying settle around us like dust. But when his thumb swept gently along the side of my hand – a brush of softness that burned – I pulled away.
Hot and treacherous, a shiver rippled down my spine. I averted my gaze and stared out the window, afraid of what might show on my face if I turned back.
Somehow, in that moment, I wished I could have scheduled Ghost for tonight. There was too much piling up in my head, getting ready to explode.
Vinnie’s eyes were a bright, piercing blue. Like the sky at noon, cloudless and glaring.
He’d been avoiding my eyes ever since the day I’d left him standing on the pavement outside my building, with a guarded demeanour that made his shoulders hunch like a question I hadn’t answered.
A question I knew he didn’t want answered, either.
He never struck me as someone who’d cling. Not with his reputation – the flirtiness, the easy smirks. His flavour of women were the ones who never stuck for more than a night or two.
But now, as Cain and I walked deeper into the muted elegance of the hotel suite where the interview would take place, I couldn’t decide what had latched onto Vinnie’s stare as he counted our steps. Jealousy?
Or something more complicated?
And when his gaze finally slid from me to Cain, I noticed the shift – subtle, but there. The edge dulled. The ice softened.
He dipped his chin once, casual as ever, then slid a hand into the pocket of his pale blue slacks and lobbed something at Cain – who caught it single-handedly.
A comb.
Cain’s frown was answer enough – message delivered. Although, I had to admit I liked his slightly dishevelled look. It kind of made him seem… mortal.
Stepping towards the trio of velvet armchairs arranged around a low glass table, Vinnie stood just as I neared, and brushed past me deliberately – a little too close. A little too slow. His chest grazed mine, and he dipped his head, close enough that I felt the warmth of his exhale at my temple.
I jerked my head towards him.
The bastard was smirking. Walking backwards now, as if nothing had happened – as if the moment hadn’t pulsed with something predatory.
Did he… did he smell my fucking hair?
My stomach twisted. I rubbed my forearm on instinct, as though I could scrub away the feeling that idea draped over me.
‘Miss DeLuca!’ A cheerful, feminine voice cut through the static.
The woman in the opposite chair stood and extended a hand. Polished nails, designer blouse, smile just shy of plastic.
‘So happy to finally meet you! I’ve heard quite a bit.’ Her tone sunk by the end as her gaze snagged on my bruise by the brow.
I returned the gesture with a polite smile, pretending there was nothing weird about me. But my thoughts were still stuck on Vinnie. How he moved. How he watched. How his boundaries shifted with mood – not consent.
‘Bike accident,’ I said to her, shrugging, and watched the discomfort melt from her shoulders.
As a shadow covered the carpet, her gaze reached beyond me and climbed up.
‘And Mr D’Angelo. An angel, indeed,’ she purred, reaching her hand to Cain.
Something in me recoiled as he took it, shook it curtly and – attempted to – wrench it out of hers.
But she held on.
Her gaze locked with his, steady, laced with something knowing. A kind of intent that was too obvious to be ignored.
It scorched straight through me.
I shifted in the chair, trying to shake the heat crawling up my neck. The ridiculous, entirely unwelcome possessiveness clawed its way up my spine.
Cain slid into the chair beside me, silent. The fabric groaned faintly beneath his weight. I didn’t realise how much I’d been holding my breath until that moment.
I caught Vinnie and his lopsided smirk as he sank deeper into the sofa, legs sprawled like he owned the room, chin propped lazily against his knuckles.
He fixed a blatant, unbothered stare on me like I were a puzzle he’d already half-solved and was in no rush to finish.
Then came the thought.
Should I tell Cain?
Should I say anything about Vinnie? It could have been my rattled state of mind that was simply conjuring things – the loss of Ghost, who was my only vent up until now; Travis’ attack; the kiss with Cain that shouldn’t have happened…
Damn it, I cursed inwardly. I was fucking up even this new life I’d started to build here.
Glancing sideways at Cain’s unreadable face, our eyes met for a heartbeat. Then he looked away.
No smile. No softness. No nothing.
I wasn’t expecting much. But… the answer settled like a stone in my chest.
But it helped me decide: I wouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t rock the boat.
Not today, at least.
The interview started with Cain. And it was pretty obvious it was going to end with him too.
The reporter – whose name I hadn’t caught, let alone cared to remember – launched straight in with questions about our work.
Or rather, his work. The rest was just veiled curiosity masquerading as professionalism.
She was too obvious – leaning forward too often to flash her cleavage, her laughter too light, her compliments too rehearsed.
It was fucking exhausting.
Cain, of course, caught on early. He was used to women orbiting him like that.
And somehow… I realised… I may not have been ready for anything with him after all. Even though I did want to protect him. Even though I did want to help him heal from his past.
But there was also the matter that I couldn’t help him heal when I was as damaged as he was.
Cain’s replies were polite, clipped, all business. No flirtation, no softness, no invitation.
And that only made her try harder.
I nearly rolled my eyes when she asked him something about inspiration and whether he found it in people around him, because her gaze lingered far too long on his chest, lips parting like it was some goddamn romcom moment.
That was when Vinnie tipped forward and tapped the back of her chair.
‘They’ll be co-writing a historical dark romance soon,’ he said, tone casual but carrying that instinctive, needling edge he used so well.
My jaw locked.
Cain didn’t correct him – didn’t say a fucking word.
And that silence grated like broken glass under skin.
‘We’re still discussing the possibility.’ The words tumbled out before I had the chance to second-guess them.
The room stilled. Even the hum of the city outside felt quieter for a second.
All three pairs of eyes turned to me.
The reporter hesitated, blinking, then offered me a tight smile.
‘I see,’ she said, her gaze sweeping over me – ankles to chin – as though she were mentally scoring me for some imaginary panel.
I wasn’t wrapped in designer fabric. But I knew how I wore this dress – how it could shift the balance in a room when I needed it to.
The thought slinked through me like a dare, purring and stretching its claws towards her.
Reclining into the velvet of the chair, I let the moment swell and crossed one leg over the other. The slit of the summer dress slipped aside just enough to reveal a hint of bare thigh.
Cain dropped his gaze to his feet, jaw realigning, pressure visible across his cheek.
Vinnie slid lower into the sofa, arms sprawled along the back, but his eyes?
They were eating me alive.
The woman, though, leaned in slightly, smile sharpening at the corners as her gaze locked with mine.
Beast recognising beast.
As if sensing the moment spiralling, Cain’s chin tipped up just enough to glance between Vinnie, me and the folder he’d been carrying from the penthouse – the Viking files.
‘I asked her,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s not too keen on it. Would you like a sneak-peek?’ He turned to the woman, who reached for the folder, but Vinnie suddenly snatched it with a chuckle.
‘Now, now,’ he said, flashing a grin. ‘Haven’t seen these myself. Just want to make sure not everything ends up in your notes – yeah?’ He pointed at her notebook.
She gave him a wry smile, insanely perfect teeth beaming like fluorescent bulbs.
‘Only things you say will find themselves in the article,’ she agreed.
Vinnie, sneaking an amused glance towards her, circled her chair and handed me the papers.
I raised them, irritation bubbling under my skin.
‘You knew he was going to ask me to co-write this?’ My voice edged higher, fuelled by the influx of hidden intentions and whispers behind my back.
Vinnie shrugged unapologetically, pouring himself some water from the dispenser before settling onto the sofa again.
‘I’m the manager. Of course I knew. So, how come you don’t want to write it?’
I stood, repositioning my chair further from my boss so that I could see both the reporter and him clearly, and plopped back down.
Predictably, Cain’s brow twitched at the change. ‘It’s just… a lot of research,’ I said, my voice more defensive than I intended.
‘That looks like a lot of paper to me,’ Vinnie said, gesturing pointedly at the stack in my hands.