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Even here, in a sea of well-dressed, well-heeled Manhattan elite, there was a quality to Rocco that made him stand out. Several qualities, in fact. Whether it was his stature—his height and broad frame—or his chiseled good looks, or the bespoke cut of his jet-black suit, he was instantly impactful, his presence impossible to miss.
And to resist?
The thought popped into her head the moment her eyes slid slightly to Rocco’s left, landing with a stomach-plunging thud on a stunning brunette, draped elegantly over the spare stool at his table.
When he saw Maddie, however, Rocco’s lips moved—a few short words—and the brunette straightened, looked around with narrowed eyes, and then stalked off.
Maddie’s lips twisted in a smirk. “Hedging your bets?” she asked, as she arrived.
Rocco reached for a bottle of champagne—she recognized the expensive label from the fashion magazines her grandmother had loved—and poured a flute for Maddie.
“Don’t bother,” she said, belatedly. “I’m not staying.”
Rocco simply topped up his own glass, silently, in response.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Is it?”
He lifted his glass towards hers, and despite her earlier protestation, she found herself lifting hers in response, lightly clinking the sides of their drinks together. Their eyes met and her blood seemed to fizz in her veins.
“Yes.”
“Why so?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“The house stuff.”
“We agreed nothing that happens tonight will change that.”
She bit down on her lip. “That’s all very good in theory, but I doubt it’s a promise we can actually keep.”
“What do you think is going to happen?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Are you afraid you’ll sleep with me and hand over the keys to the house immediately afterwards?”
She glared at him. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Don’t make it worse by lying.”
“I’m trying to understand your thoughts.”
“You don’t need to understand them. I’m telling you how I feel.”
He made a throaty grunting sound. “How was work, cara?”
She forced herself to imagine him calling the brunette ‘cara’. She forced herself to remember this was just the sort of term of endearment someone like Rocco would employ—as meaningless as the sex he’d offered. Easily dispensed and retracted.
She sipped the champagne, wishing her heart wasn’t thudding so hard against her ribs. “I—fine.”
“You’re a florist?”
She compressed her lips. “Does it matter?”
He shrugged, a gesture of benign indifference. “So why not answer?”
