21. Michael
Michael
She talked me into watching Bring It On, reciting half the movie.
I didn’t pay attention to the screen. I watched her.
I watched the way she had most of the lines memorized, the way she leaned into me without thinking about it, and the way she looked over when she wanted to see my reaction to certain scenes.
Now she’s stretched across the couch with her head in my lap, looking up at me while she talks.
She grew up in this house. She never knew her dad. The piece of shit ran out on her mom when she was pregnant. I listen while running my fingers through her hair.
Her mom started forgetting things when she was in high school. They were small things at first, then more. When she graduated, she stayed here and commuted to Cal State LA. That’s where she met Sarah.
“Right after graduation, my mom went to the grocery store and never came home.”
My hand stills for a second.
“We couldn’t find her for hours. The police finally did—down by the lake, feeding the ducks. She didn’t know where she was.”
I keep my hand moving through her hair.
“Early onset dementia,” she says. “That’s what the doctors said.”
She swallows.
“I couldn’t take care of her.”
She gives me a faint smile, but it doesn’t hold.
“I found a place for her in Britten Valley. It’s really nice. That’s why I work at the bar. It’s expensive, and insurance doesn’t cover all of it.”
“That’s a lot for a twenty-four year old to deal with,” I say, my hand still in her hair.
“I make it work,” she says.
“I have a question for you,” I say.
“What?”
“If money wasn’t an issue, what would you do? Would you have chosen to be a teacher?”
“No,” she answers immediately.
“That was fast.”
She smiles. “I’d be a painter.”
“A painter, huh?”
She nods. “I love art, but it doesn’t pay the bills unless you hit it big.”
“Why don’t you think you’d hit it big?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t take that chance. Anyway, what about you?”
“What about me?”
She sits up, cross legged again, facing me. She’s right next to me, and her hand settles on my leg.
“I don’t really know anything about you.”
“You know I’m a CEO. You’ve seen my house. You know I like fruit roll-ups.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Not enough?” I smile at her.
“No, not enough.”
“Come here,” I murmur. “Sit back against me, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Michael Amato.”
She narrows her eyes at me, considering, but her curiosity gives in. She turns and slides back between my legs, settling against me. I bring my arms around her waist, holding her there as she leans into my chest. Her shoulders drop, and her body softens. She lets herself relax into me.
“I was born in Sicily,” I start.
She turns her head to look at me, but I lift my hand and gently guide her back to face forward.
“My parents were living here, but my mom went back to visit her family for the summer. She went into labor a few weeks early, and there I was.”
“So your mom’s from Sicily?” she asks, settling more comfortably against me.
“Mmm-hmm. My dad’s family is too, but he was born here. My mom was born there. He met her when he was visiting family.”
“And they got married?” she asks.
“When they were seventeen.”
She lets out a quiet breath. “That’s so young.”
Her hands find mine, resting there.
“They had me at nineteen.”
“Wow,” she murmurs. “My mom was thirty-six when she had me.”
“Yeah?” I murmur.
“Yeah. Your parents were kids.”
“Maybe,” I breathe. “But I don’t think they ever got to be.” I pause. “My dad didn’t, especially. He was in the family business by sixteen, running it by twenty.”
She shakes her head. “That’s insane.”
“I took it over at twenty-two.”
She pulls away from me, enough to turn, her eyes wide. “You were twenty-two when you took over a billion-dollar corporation?”
Her blue eyes lock on mine, and she looks so fucking beautiful it almost knocks the air out of me.
I could tell her everything. I could tell her I didn’t just take over a company—I took over a city. That by twenty-five, people knew not only my name, they feared it. I could tell her I own half of Los Angeles. The streets. The ports. The men who enforce the law and the ones who pretend to.
I could tell her about the LAPD, the judges, the people who smile in public and answer to me in private. I could tell her who I am, but I don’t.
“Yeah. My grandmother got sick, and my parents moved back to Sicily to take care of her.” I pause, my thumb brushing over her hand. “My dad sat me down and said, Michael, it’s now or never. You take it over, or I give it to someone else.”
“So you just did it?”
“Yeah.”
She studies me for a second.
“You’re incredible,” she breathes out.
I huff a breath, shaking my head. “Why? Because I’m a billionaire?”
Her brows pull together. “You think I care that you’re a billionaire?” She lets out a small scoff, shaking her head. “No. You’re incredible because you’ve worked your ass off to get where you are.”
I stare at her for a long time.
“What?” She wipes at her face. “Do I have something on me?”
“No,” I say. “You’re just the first woman who’s ever seemed interested in me and not my money.”
Her face goes red, and she bites her lip. “Is that why you’re thirty-six and single.”
“I’ll say it again for the second time tonight.” I lean forward. “You’re a little shit.”
I catch her around the waist and start tickling her before she can even react. She bursts into laughter, trying to shove my hands away.
I dip my head closer, smiling. “Did you giggle?”
“Shut the fuck up,” she breathes out, laughing as she tries to twist free.
I let her go, and she falls back against the couch cushions, smiling at me like she has no idea what she just did. I could say it. Right now. To a woman I’ve known for forty-eight hours.
God.
She pushes my shoulder.
“Let’s watch another movie,” she says. “And then we need to go to bed. Tomorrow’s my last day of school, and you have to be at work in LA by eight, right?”
I nod, swallowing it down.
“Lie down,” she orders.
I raise a brow but do it anyway, stretching out across the couch. She pushes my legs apart, focused. She grabs a pillow and drops it right over my groin.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
She ignores me, climbing up and settling between my legs, resting her head on the pillow. She wraps her arms around my thigh and gets comfortable, while I stare at the ceiling.
I’m in trouble.