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This…wasn’t what I’d expected. Nico lived in a hotel. Well, not actually in a hotel, but he owned the hotel—the Peninsula Resort and Spa—and he lived in a villa on the grounds. I’d woken to a view of the ocean, to the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Most of the journey had passed in a blur. Matty cried when the plane’s engines rumbled into life, and the pressure changes had made him howl. He’d finally passed out from sheer exhaustion two hours into the flight, and I’d followed suit. After we landed, Nico had helped me to strap Matty into a car seat, and we’d woken up in Baldwin’s Shore.
Now? Now Nico and I would have to talk. I’d have to explain what an utter mess I’d made of my life, from thinking I could make it in the cutthroat entertainment business, to getting involved with Cesare, to ending up pregnant, to getting my ass hauled back to NYC when I tried to escape the first time.
But where was Nico? When I stumbled out of the guest suite wearing a fluffy bathrobe over the pyjamas I’d found on my bed, he was nowhere to be seen. I spotted a note on the kitchen counter in his painfully precise writing, telling me that one of his staff had taken Cricket for a walk and to make myself at home.
Matty was still sleeping soundly, thank goodness, so I tiptoed around downstairs, feeling like a voyeur. Cesare had been fond of all things ostentatious—gilded furniture, chandeliers in every room, expensive paintings, a grand piano he couldn’t play. Think Versailles meets the Marble Palace. Nico’s tastes were far simpler, and his favourite colour seemed to be white. I recalled his old bedroom in the Moscow mansion—he’d been a neat freak even then.
The only cluttered space was the living room, and that was filled with shopping bags and stacks of boxes. Toys, clothes, a booster seat, a potty, a first-aid kit, sippy cups, faucet extenders, diapers, wipes, a flat-packed playhouse… Wow.
The front door was locked when I tried it, the same with the back door, but the sliding door that led to the terrace opened smoothly. I stepped outside and breathed. Just breathed. Nobody stopped me, no asshole in a suit appeared to order me back inside. There was a yard. An actual yard that Cricket would love. A pool too, and the metal fence around it looked hastily erected and out of place. Beyond the pool, palm trees and other greenery gave Nico’s space privacy. The cabana would be beautiful in the summer. Would I still be here then? Or would I spend the rest of my life on the move, constantly trying to stay one step ahead of Cesare and the cops?
“Did you sleep well?”
I jumped when Nico spoke from behind me, then turned to face him. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and his hair was tousled, probably by the wind. If I stayed out here for long, I’d need to find a ponytail holder.
“I guess it’s relative, but I slept better than I have in a while.”
“Matty’s okay?”
“He’s exhausted, but he’ll want breakfast soon.”
“I have cereal, eggs, fruit, toast, and milk.” Nico checked his watch. “Breakfast service is almost finished, but the hotel kitchen can whip up anything else you want.”
“Matty usually has a scrambled egg with toast and mashed banana.”
“What about you?”
“Just coffee. I have to watch my weight.”
Nico looked me up and down, a slow perusal that set butterflies fluttering in my belly. Guilt quickly squashed them. Nico was like a brother to me, and his gaze definitely shouldn’t make my thighs clench the way they did.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why? Why do I have to watch my weight? Because I have costumes to fit—” No. No, I didn’t. I didn’t have costumes anymore. I didn’t have an image to maintain, and I didn’t have to sing at the Starlight Lounge. I didn’t have Cesare criticising my diet and telling me that if I got fat, I was more likely to suffer another miscarriage. “Okay, I guess I could have a slice of toast.”
“Are you up to talking as well?”
Was “no” an acceptable answer? “Yes.”
For years, my head had been filled with memories of Nico the boy. The long-suffering teenager who’d helped me with my homework and let me win at chess. The day we’d met in New York, I’d gotten a glimpse of Nico the man, cool, detached, and unattainable. I’d thought about him more than was healthy, but I’d never called him, not until I ran out of money and options in Manassas. Now I remembered why.
Nico-the-man was magnetic.
Deep down, I had to admit what I tried to deny. That I’d dated Cesare because over the course of one stupid lunch, I’d developed a crush on Nico, and I knew I’d never be able to have him. When he left, he’d patted me on the shoulder, for Pete’s sake. Cesare had offered the same dark, dangerous energy, but—so I thought—none of the risk to my heart. I figured we’d go out for dinner once or twice, share a few wild nights, and then go our separate ways, no damage done.
A rejection from Nico, on the other hand? That would have hurt like hell.
I took a seat at the counter as he fiddled with the coffee machine, dumping beans into a hopper on the top. No instant for Nico. How had he ended up here in Oregon? If he’d inherited his father’s billions, he should be on a yacht in the Med.
“Sugar? Cream?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“Just the caffeine.”
He set a mug on the counter in front of me, plain white with a twisted handle.
