28. Zoe
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ZOE
“ J ust a little to the side, please,” I take a step back, my index finger on my chin, while my free hand gestures for Ettore to tilt a little so I check the fitting of his pants on him.
He is standing in the sewing room with just the dress pants from one of the suits he will choose to wear for the wedding later today.
I’m done. I finally completed the suits, but not without the extra hands he provided and Valerie’s artistic input. I will send her a picture of the outfit later today. I’m still coming around to the fact that someone made a video of Sabine spilling her wine on me and posted it online as one of the most embarrassing moments from the Met Galas.
It’s trending, and I somehow wished Ettore had never got me a phone because not having one would have meant being in the dark. Now, I can’t help doom-scrolling to see the many reactions and comments from people who take pleasure in making others feel worthless. I am still trying to get accustomed to this new world of smartphones and social media. All of this was just starting when I got kidnapped and I still don’t understand how it all works and why people are so obsessed with it.
The only thing I understand is that I’m ranking number one on that list.
“I think it’s perfect,” I close my hand around my neck.
I don’t know what is more perfect: the fact that I don’t need to make any adjustments to the pants or the fact that his upper body is bared and toned by the morning sunlight blazing through the room.
He gives a curt nod, “How are you feeling?”
I nod vehemently, trying to hide my feelings. “You can put on your shirt now. Thank you.” I say, pointing at his T-shirt on a hanger behind him.
His dark eyes dim darker, and his brows narrow, “About last night.”
“Oh,” I clear my throat, “A little sore but good.” My voice dips and my head with it.
He chuckles, “Zoe…”
“Hmm,” I strut over to a stool and plop on it, “I’m good. I promise. It’s nothing I cannot handle.” I have been used worse and I survived it.
I’m sore, but I would do it again.
“I’m talking about the video going viral.”
I hold my breath for a minute. Oh. That.
“Yeah,” I nod, searching for something to do with my hands, anxious about where my mind had been heading. “I mean, the video punctured a sore spot, but it’s really nothing I cannot handle,” I’m stuttering. I pick up my measuring tape on the long table and puff.
“You are such a bad liar,” his voice drops a timbre, “What did I say about lying?” From the corner of my eye, I see him going to the hangar and pulling his black T-shirt off.
“Why do you like black?” I switch the conversation. Then I bite my tongue at my brazenness. My shoulders sag and my head hangs low.
“It’s easier to wear, and no one knows when it’s stained with my enemies’ blood,” he shrugs as he slides his arms into it.
“You have a sick sense of humor…” I frown at him. “Are you saying you chose the color because you hate doing the laundry?”
He nods. “Not a good enough reason?”
“Do you hear yourself?” I keep my tone swinging between low and amused. I don’t want to poke him or step out of line.
I have not been permitted to.
“All the time, and I love the sound of my voice,” he is in a good mood. The same mood he has been in since last night. I love this side of him. It makes him sound and look younger than the grief in his eyes makes him out to be.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” I snort.
“You can get blood on it, and no one would know,” he slips into his T-shirt and ruffles it into place. “But that’s not why I wear it; I was just kidding,” he swings his giant sinful body in my direction, and my lungs constrict, “I wear it because I lost a dear friend, and I went into mourning.”
“He got killed?” He lost someone. That must have been the reason for the grief in his eyes.
“She went missing,” he stops by the table, his voice tightening.
“She?” I clear my throat, and a pang of jealousy rocks me on my stool. “I’m sorry about that. But are you sure she went missing? Maybe she ran away from you? You are not such great company. I don’t know if anyone has told you that before.”
The buzzer goes off in my head that I just stepped out of line. I gulp and hold my breath, waiting for his reaction.
“Funny,” he pulls a stool beside me and sits, and now the big room feels cramped.
“You will kill anyone who says that to you, so we all have to lie about liking you,” I continue to tease, but carefully.
“But do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you lie about liking me?” He cranes his head so he is burning into my eyes with the hot coals of his gaze. “I will put a bullet in your head if I don’t like your answer, so you better think carefully.”
I giggle uncontrollably at his words and the sternness on his face as if he means it. He has a playful side. I like it. I like it a lot.
“Let’s see…” My phone chiming behind me cuts me off guard, and I decide I would rather go for it than keep smoldering under the gaze of the hypnotizing man. “Can I get that, please?”
“You don’t like me,” he says, rising to his feet and going to the corner to retrieve his black jeans thrown on a stool.
“I never said so,” I check my phone and see I have an email from a potential sponsor asking me to send my portfolio to him. My heart stops pumping for a second and my eyes fly wide.
“What is it?” He is slipping out of the dress pants, and I spin to give my back to him as if I do not want to ogle until I’m drowning in my drool. “Another horrible comment from a jobless sociopath?”
I shake my head. “No,” I gulp loudly, my hands clammy and shivering at the fact that it’s all happening too fast. Again. Like last night. “A potential sponsor wants me to send my portfolio to them.”
“That’s a good thing.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I take a deep shuddering breath, “it is a good thing.”
Thanks to Valerie, I have a rough, ready-to-use portfolio that includes some of the sketches I did for Ettore and the Bratva clubhouse.
“You are doing me proud. First the suits and now this.”
I turn to him, and he has a tenderness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before or thought was possible.
I go over to him and hand him my phone, “Please,” I hold my breath as he intersects me with his eyes.
“Please what.”
“Can you help me send the email with the attachment? It’s saved as Portfolio . I’m still learning how to deal with these modern phones.”
“We could send your response as a letter through a pigeon.” His lips curve in a smirk as he takes the phone from me and does something with his fingers, then hands it back to me.
“Thank you. And to answer your question, no,” I shake my head.
“No, what?” He zips up, and the effect has my sex pinching. I’m sure he notices because he snaps his fingers and gestures with them for me to keep my eyes up.
“I do not like you,” I clear my throat, “You are hands down the most frightening man I have ever met,” I take the pants from his grip.
He is frightening. Even his playful side feels like the venomous tongue of a viper.
“Good,” his head dips and my breathing dives, “I do not want you to like me,” he breathes, his whiskey breath twisting my insides in delicious ways. He lifts his hand to my face as if to stroke, and I close my eyes, sucking in the air infused by his strong scent.
His hand never comes, and when I open my eyes to check, I’m alone in the room.
A lot is happening to me right now, but I should focus on the wedding. I have the role of a fake girlfriend to play—a fake girlfriend who is meant to be in love with her boyfriend.
But the more I think, the more I wonder if there is anything there to fake.