Gritting my teeth, I say, “Bring him to me.”
At least I won’t be home alone like some latchkey kid.
Wilder’s tortured expression relaxes with a tickled grin at my expense. He laughs under his breath, covering it by coughing into his fist. I should be offended, but truthfully, I’ve reached my threshold for personal offense today, and I don’t mind watching the color of his eyes lighten with his mood.
His eyes are my favorite shade of gray.
Lydia emerges from her office with Dog on a leash, trotting in front of her like the king of the castle. He’s fattened up in the months since I’ve lived with them in the apartment, but despite Dog’s lavish life, he remains rough around the edges from his life on the streets. Just like Lydia.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” Lydia passes me the lead. She loiters, taking a step forward like she might hug me before remembering who she is and who’s in the next room watching. Walking away with her shoulders back and her chin up, she mutters, “Wilder, take care of my girl.”
It’s as good as an embrace.
Being trapped inside an elevator with Wilder Ridge is a much different experience than being trapped in an elevator with the mafia.
I even pressed the button myself.
The wrong one, but it’s an improvement.
We face each other on opposite sides of the elevator cab—heartbeat steady, breathing easy—in what now feels like the quickest elevator ride in the history of elevators. Mere feet sit between us like miles, and it wouldn’t be so bad if the walls closed in on us and we tore a page from a dirty romance novel, making the most of our swift decent to the first floor.
“Would you believe me if I told you that tonight actually turned out better than I hoped?”
Wilder presses his lips together before smiling. “No.”
“It’s true.” I lean against the rail and cross one ankle over the other. “I had a terrible day at work. One for the books. Lydia said she wanted to meet for dinner, but I have a sneaking suspicion she summoned me to be crucified and used as an example to those who dare cross your majesty. Giovanni and his gang of monsters probably did me a favor by showing up early, those bastards.”
Cover me in beautiful wrapping paper, top me with a big red bow, and sell me as a gift, but the naked truth is, I’m not worth opening. I’m trash.
Fancy.
Overpriced.
Trash.
Wilder doesn’t judge me. He knows what I do, and whom I do it with, and he’s a gentleman.
But he doesn’t look me in the eyes when he asks, “Did something happen with a client?”
I don’t blame him.
We’re both sinners, but working with the mob is frowned upon.
Prostitution is salacious.
“His wife showed up,” I admit casually, like a secretary might if someone borrowed a stapler without asking.
Wilder’s brows come together, and he clears his throat before asking, “While you were—”
“We didn’t get that far before she humiliated us in front of everyone and chased me out of the office.” One, two, three seconds pass before Wilder finally meets my gaze, and the sudden intensity in his stare feels like a spotlight. He tilts his head to the side and rubs the back of his neck, inhaling through his nose. I dig deep for my voice before I ask, “Does that bother you?”
“Does what bother me, Camilla?”
“Thinking about me with another man?”
My question swings in the space between us like a pendulum, and the act of modesty Wilder showed for my convenience is carried away by the force of it.
Another naked truth: Wilder and I have danced around this topic for months.
