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Die a virgin.
And look the other way when my husband flirted with the staff.
Couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I prefer war, it’s better to look at my enemies face to face than to wonder if they’re sitting with me at the dinner table hiding a steak knife to shove into my back. Less guess work that way.” —King Campisi
Ivan
Every song in the SUV leading up to brunch had to do with sex. It wasn’t my imagination and even Tank kept looking in the rearview mirror as if to check on me.
Was I okay?
Absolutely not.
Was I having a ginormous problem keeping myself in check?
Yes.
Was I actually singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in order to distract myself from the fresh smell of Bella’s perfume or the fact that her innocent little white dress was inching up her tanned thigh?
Hell. Yes.
Why white?
Why was she so tan?
I mean, she was Italian.
And I did tell her to look perfectly untouched, so her dad didn’t take one look at her and assume I was touching her or kissing her.
Which just made me want to touch more.
She was the pretty little glass ballerina in a case that only danced when you twisted three times—but you had to find the key first.
And I was the robber, willing to burn down the house in order to find the key, open the box, and listen.
I just wanted to listen.
I was going insane.
Bella cleared her throat and turned to face me, flashing me more thigh. Maybe Nixon knew this would end up killing me more than his knife?
He trained his girls well, I’m sure he had high hopes, death by want.
I did a double take, then frowned. She had a small white horse tattoo on her wrist. It wasn’t large, and it matched the one Serena got on her hand a few years back.
Nobody talked about the meaning behind it, and I’d never asked or cared until Junior forced me to get one on my finger, right next to where the ring for the De Lange Family rested—like he knew in advance, the bastard.
“I’m not getting a finger tattoo.” I stared him down hoping that I looked intimidating, then again, I was only like eighteen. “Only losers get tattoos on their fingers.” I grinned down at his hand. “Oh look, is that fresh ink?”
He swatted my hand away, then flipped me off with the same tatted hand. “You’re an idiot.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
