Chapter 2
Ego
Sabrina Rosetto is sweet and pretty on paper, but her photo doesn't do her justice.
She is something else in person.
I’ve been professionally trained to take in miniscule details at a glance, and my focus is completely on her from the second I saw her through the glass-paneled door to her classroom.
She’s wearing a fitted brown skirt that hugs her wide hips and stops mid-calf, with a cream-colored blouse tucked in and a soft little cardigan on top—buttoned all the way up with about two dozen tiny pearl buttons that make my fingers itch.
She’s got on knee high boots that mold to her calves, and the slit in her skirt flashes a bit of skin when she walks.
Every curve, every dip and swell of her ultra-feminine body is outlined in modest fabrics, and that only makes it worse.
Like she’s daring someone to look beneath the surface.
Or maybe she doesn’t know what she’s doing to the people who do look.
Because the truth is, all I want to do is peel those clothes off of her and see what she’s hiding beneath her prim and proper exterior.
I should be better than this.
I’m a professional.
I’ve seen models, movie stars, pop stars, diplomats, mob wives, actual fucking princesses.
I’ve guarded people with entire countries in their back pockets.
But her?
This kindergarten teacher?
Yeah, I’m seconds from embarrassing myself with a hard-on like I’m some damn teenage altar boy.
Maybe it’s the Catholic school setting.
The faint smell of chalk and antiseptic and whatever cleaning fluid they use in these hallways.
Maybe it’s the distant echo of prayers on the whiteboard and the fact that for one split second, I forgot who I was and actually bowed my damn head.
Like I used to at St. Peter’s over in Newark, back when me and my brother Kai were little shits with scraped knees and bigger dreams than we had room for.
I wasn’t a die-hard then. Not now either.
But I liked school. I liked church.
I liked the idea of forgiveness.
Still do.
The idea that even someone like me—a guy who’s done shit no confessional could clean—might be made new again.
She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.
Sabrina Rosetto, with her soft curves and soft cardigan and soft voice, makes me want to be better. To earn something.
To earn her.
She doesn’t look at me right away. She’s busy with the kids, zipping up jackets, passing out folders, laughing at some inside joke with a freckle-faced boy who looks like he worships the ground she walks on.
I completely understand, kid. Trust me.
She’s strong. In a quiet way.
And I don’t miss the way her hand shakes when she thinks no one’s looking.
I catch it.
That tiny tremor. That flicker of nerves.
She’s scared.
And if she thinks this threat is real like I know it is—then she has every reason to be.
And yet she doesn’t cower under my stare. Doesn’t fawn. Doesn’t even offer me more than a glance until the last of the kids is out the door and down the hall.
I admit I’m on tenterhooks, waiting for even a crumb of her attention.
Then she turns.
And bam!
Full-frontal impact.
Big eyes—hazel, I think they’re called, because instead of one color there’s like twenty shades of green, amber, and brown. They’re framed by short, thick, impossibly dark lashes.
Her full cheeks are deliciously flushed. And her thick, golden brown hair is pulled back in some kind of bun that’s already starting to fall apart.
My pulse kicks up like a bomb’s about to drop.
She eyes me carefully, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.
And when she speaks, her voice is low and husky.
It’s like she’s telling me a secret, and suddenly I need to know everything I can about her.
She raises her eyebrows, and it’s then I realize I’m staring like a moron.
“So, what can I do for you, Mister, um?”
She bites her bottom lip expectantly.
And holy shit—I almost forget my name.
Almost.
I straighten up, smile the way Kane told me not to—like I mean it.
“Theodore Montego, but everyone calls me Ego, Miss Rosetto,” I say, pulling out my badge just enough to flash the Sigma logo.
“Ego? Like the waffle?”
“I guess,” I murmur, and clear my throat.
“Okay then, Ego,” she says and her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. Yet. “So, why are you here?”
“Actually, I’m here to help you.”