Page 10 of Claimed By Daddy
I spend the entire day trying to keep myself occupied. Drifting from room to room, I don’t really settle anywhere for long. Cleaning the pantry to feel useful. Reading a book—of which I didn’t comprehend a word. Desperately trying to appear busy.
He’s unusually quiet today, hardly speaking at all. Each pass of the living room is the same—the searing heat of Enzo’s gaze like a brand across my skin when he glances up from his phone or the Sports Illustrated he’s reading. He just watches me from his spot on the couch, like he’s expecting me to crack first.He’s going to be waiting a long time.I would give him credit for the space he’s giving me, but it feels intentional—like a predator giving their prey just enough rope to walk themselves into a trap.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he announces, breaking the silence as he slips on a pair of loafers. “I’m going to run across the street to pick up dinner. Try to behave while I’m gone.”
“Don’t count on it,” I mutter, but he’s already out the door.
As promised, he returns within a few minutes with a white plastic bag in one hand and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. The mouth-watering aroma of Chinese food follows his every step—ginger, garlic, and something spicy. Against my will, my stomach growls angrily.
“Good. You’re hungry,” he teases, unpacking the paper cartons onto the white granite of the island. “I didn’t think to ask what you liked before leaving, so I got a little of everything.” He opens a cabinet and pulls out wine glasses, promptly pouring two generous servings of a deep red Grenache.
The food is surprisingly good—although I am starving and would eat anything right now. That tiny peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had at lunch didn’t quite tide me over. We eat in silence, the two of us perched at the kitchen island. It’s almost peaceful.
Almost.
“You always this quiet, princess?” Enzo asks around a mouthful of rice.
“You always so cocky?”
“Yes.” He chuckles smugly, somehow lifting the heaviness that’s been hanging in the air since I got here. We pass the takeout containers between us, the conversation growing easier as the evening progresses—and I am suddenly feeling far too comfortable with him.It’s the wine. It has to be the wine.
“Rude!” I playfully scoff when he inadvertently insults my well-worn black leggings. “You’re one to talk. You’re literally a walking Italian mafia cliché.”
He lowers his chopsticks and stares at me with a slightly gaped mouth. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“The suits. The silk ties. The fancy shoes.” I wave a hand at his outfit. “The only thing missing from your Tony Soprano starter kit is the velour tracksuit and a cigar.”
He glares at me, clearly insulted. And I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. A loud, obnoxious howl rising from my belly. I haven’t laughed like this in days. Weeks, maybe. But it feels good, even if it is in front of him.
Shaking his head, he watches me with an unreadable expression. I try to place it as I finish the rest of my wine—amusement, maybe. Interest. Hunger.
I reach for the bottle, and his hand lands over mine when we both grab it at the same time—the lightheartedness of our meal immediately fizzling out. It’s just a brush of his skin against mine. But it’s electric—a spark that travels up my arm and settles somewhere deep in my core. The way he stares back at me, it’s like he knowsexactlywhat he is doing to me. I tear my hand away, nearly spilling the bottle of wine.
“It’s late… I should probably go to bed,” I blurt, standing abruptly from my stool, almost toppling it as well.
Enzo leans back in his barstool, arms folded across his chest and that damn smirk on his face again. “It’s only eight thirty. But if you’rethateager, princess…”
“Alone!” I snap, feeling a warmth caused by something other than the wine flushing my cheeks.
He chuckles softly. “Sure.”
I head toward the spiral staircase, fighting the urge to look back at him over my shoulder. But I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching. His gaze is boring through my skin.
When I reach Cillian’s room, I lean against the back of the door and let out a shaky breath.Two days.Cillian will be home in two more days.If I somehow survive the next forty-eight hours alone with Enzo Roseti and his smug, maddening, too-pretty face, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.
Eavan has been hiding out in Cillian’s room most of the morning, only coming down once for coffee and toast.At this point, I’m growing certain she lives on a diet consisting solely of bread and jelly.I haven’t seen much of her, but still, she hasn’t left my thoughts since she walked away from the island last night. And it’s fucking maddening. Her sweet floral scent is still nestled in my lungs. That big, hearty laugh of hers is playing on a loop in my ears. And I swear, I can still feel her skin brushing against mine.
She finally wandered downstairs about two hours ago, dressed in a T-shirt and still wearing those too-tight leggings I can’t pull my eyes from—stomping around with heavy feet andeven heavier sighs. After aimlessly perusing the kitchen cabinets and fridge, then tidying up an already pristine apartment, she finally settled on grabbing a book to read.
The mid-afternoon light shifts across the hardwood floor, drawing my attention from my newspaper back to her. She’s sprawled on the couch and looks like she’s seconds away from combusting from sheer boredom. Her legs are dangling over the armrest, and the book she was reading is resting on her chest—although I can fully understand how Cillian’s boring philosophical drivel isn’t holding her attention.
She exhales another exasperated sigh. “Seriously,” she whines, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her face. “Is thereanythingto do around here? Who doesn’t even own a television? Or a laptop? Board games, even?”
“I’ve got something that’ll keep you occupied,” I taunt, suggestively arching my brow.
Her eyes narrow instantly. “Nope.” She draws out the word and pops the P as she rolls her eyes. “Do youeverget tired of hearing yourself flirt?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I cross the room and stop in front of her. She leans back into the couch as I bend over her until we are close—too close. I reach out and slip a finger under her chin, lifting her face until those gorgeous emerald eyes meet mine. Her breath catches—the tiniest hitch—and that adorable pink flush creeps over her cheeks.
