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“You’d like me with cellulite and stretch marks after babies?” she asks, her head tilted. Though her tone’s teasing, there’s a hint of authenticity in her tone I don’t miss.
Still, I heard the wordbabiesand my mind’s still there, not quite sure what to make of a concept likethat. She laughs, a musical, addictive laugh I’d pay good money to hear over and over again.
I lace my hands about her hips and drag her closer. “Of course. Even then you’d be gorgeous.”
“Oh? And what if I got into a car accident and they had to amputate my legs or something?”
“Even then, baby.”
“What if I?—”
I’ve had enough of this game. “Violet. I don’t like this game. I like you the way you are right here, right now, and don’t want to imagine you hurt or damaged.”
“Alright, alright,” she says. Getting up on her tiptoes, she kisses me. “Let’s go. God, I’m starving, though.”
“Good. We’re getting dinner first.”
Her eyes light up. “Are we?”
“Yep. I finally got you out of yoga pants and a tank top and I’m not missing my chance.”
She gives me a lopsided grin. “I’d get out of those anytime you ask, Mr. Master.”
I slide my hand along the small of her back. “I’m aware, Miss Price. An office perk I like to take full advantage of.”
My phone buzzes with a text. I glance at the screen.
Joe: They need us there early. Ready to leave in ten?
“Motherfucker.”
“Uh oh. Nothing like thwarted plans to bring out the big gun curse words. What’s up?”
“No time for dinner. We need to go.”
Violet pouts for about three seconds before she shrugs, turns, and reaches for the dorm-sized fridge I keep in my room. Sheopens it and snags two protein shakes. I catch one mid-air when she tosses it to me.
“I’ll take a rain check.”
“Name the place, babe.”
An hour later, we’re stationed outside of Monstraut. Mrs. Fontaina’s given us the full tour of the estate, and Violet intentionally kept her eyes off mine as she did so. Later, she’ll give me the full rendition in Fontaina’s high-pitched, nasally voice.“The glass staircase accesses the primary suite with water views, marble bath with a soaking tub, and private, ocean-facing deck.”
I didn’t know anyone hated pretense more than I do until I met Violet.
I recently tried to gift her a diamond tennis bracelet, and she told me that it was lovely, but could I please get her a gun instead?
I did.
That’s my girl.
When we’re alone on the deck, Claude stationed at the front of the house and Joe on the bottom floor overseeing a small group of my men, I nod my chin toward the office. “You’ll be my lead in checking for bugs. Let’s go.”
“What makes her think her place is bugged?” she asks, her brow puckered with curiosity.
“No fucking idea,” I mutter. “Could be she’s delusional. Who knows?”
We go through the standard routine, sweep the closets, the corners of the room, under the desk.
