Page 115 of The Art of Ruin

“That sounds like Letty. She’s a woman of conviction.”

Adriano hums in agreement, but then I see the smile playing around his lips. “She’s asleep now,” he says, glancing toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Slight stomachache, but nothing serious.”

“I can check on her if you want.” The offer is out before I think too hard about it, my body already shifting toward the corridor. “Just to make sure she doesn’t need—”

His hand closes around mine before I take more than a step.

His touch is firm but gentle. Warm fingers around my wrist, steady and certain, and I look down at where he’s holding me before I look back at him.

“She’s fine,” he says quietly. “Stay.”

That one word shouldn’t affect me like it does.

I tell myself it’s the warmth of his hand, the fire, the fact I’m tired, the fact the house is quiet and everyone else is gone and I’m still a little raw from too many things happening too close together. But it isn’t. The fact is, I want to spend time with him.

I sit because he asks in the only way Adriano seems to know how—with very little softness and far too much certainty. But not once does he make me feel guarded or unsafe or manipulated into doing what he asks. He makes me feel valued and respected.

He lets go once I’m beside him, though the place where his fingers were stays warm for a few seconds longer than it should. The phantom sensation of his touch on my skin makes me feel warm in other, more inappropriate, ways.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, turning slightly toward me.

“Better.”

His gaze stays on my face as he tilts his head for me to continue, clearly not satisfied with the one-word answer I give him.

I sigh. “Actually better. Not fake better.”

“That’s good. You look better.”

I blush at his words and then make it worse. “Well, you certainly know how to make a woman feel good.”

His brow quirks again, that damn sexy brow. How are eyebrows even sexy?

“Are you fishing, Casey?”

“Of course not.”

I grab his drink and take a big swig, trying to force the embarrassment away and choke on the taste. “Jesus, is that poison?”

“It’s five-thousand-dollars-a-glass Japanese whiskey. It’s meant to be sipped, not swallowed like a shot.”

I feel the color drain from my face at his words. Five thousand dollars a glass? Jesus Christ. I place a hand over my belly, a queasy feeling rolling with the liquor.

Adriano shifts his body closer, alarm spreading across his features. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” I say, because I know by now that vague answers only make him more determined. “I’m nauseous from the cost of the drink.”

He tilts the now-empty glass, the remnants glistening gold against the crystal. “Any lingering effects from the flare-up?”

“A few. I’m more tired than anything. And a bit sore, but not like before.”

He nods, absorbing that like it’s information he’s filing away for later. That’s the thing with Adriano; he really listens when I speak.

“How long have you dealt with it?”

I stare at the fire for a moment, watching a log collapse inward, sparks rising briefly before disappearing up the chimney. “A long time.”

He doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t make me feel like I’ve been asked a question I have to turn into an apology.