Page 45 of Always Mine

I put the car in gear and take off. The silence is a welcome reprieve. It doesn’t last long.

“Oh, before I forget, you had a whole bunch of messages come through, the last one from someone called Kitten. Very cute nickname,” Chiara hums conspiratorially.

I’ve already pulled into traffic, so I don’t want to risk our lives by checking my messages while driving. I’m also not taking the risk of reconnecting my Bluetooth and opening them around Chiara’s prying eyes and ears given our last exchange. Instead, I let them burn a hole in my pocket, excitement over what they might say building behind my zipper.

Chapter twenty-two

Baptism Of Fire

Sophia

Istepintotheelevator catching a glimpse of my red, puffy eyes and lips, swollen from me nervously biting them. I touch them, and tears prickle again at the reminder that the last time they felt like this was only a few nights ago in the DJ booth with him. Fucking hell, how could I have been so stupid. I know I was the one who pushed him away, but honestly, I didn’t believe he’d go and hook up with someone. And certainly not the very next day. I’m officially done with Operation: Office Makeover for the day. I just want to go home, curl up on the couch with a big piece of cake and a cup of coffee, and binge-watchScandal. Salacious drama that’s not mine. Operation: Forget Marco Fucking Marrone. Yet I’m clutching my phone, hanging onto hope of even one text back from him. It’s been over thirty minutes since the blog blast and the little message receipt icon remains grayed out. He hasn’t read it. He’s probably too busy fucking the gorgeous brunette in her fuck-me boots. Images of them tangled together in a big bed, sheets mussed from sex, play out in my mind unbidden. I know exactly how talented that man’s mouth, tongue, and fingers are. I run my fingers under my eyes and stretch my cheeks upwards tode-puff my face before the elevator completes its descent from the twenty-third floor to the ground floor. It doesn’t help, but it’s not like there’s many people in today anyway.

The elevator dings, and when the door opens, I come face-to-face with the last person I want to see right now—maybe ever.

Marco looks like a dangerous wet dream in a tailored black suit that his frame fills out to perfection. Strong, dependable shoulders, tapering into a narrow waist and leading down to long, muscular legs and the impressive...situation between them, the phantom of how big and hard he felt pressed against my back still lingering on my skin. I blink to clear the memory and stay focused on the truth: I was just another number in a long line of conquests.

The other woman hasn’t seen me yet, preoccupied by whatever she’s doing on her phone. Marco’s assessing eyes flare in confusion and concern as they catalogue every inch of my tear-swollen face and my icy body language. He’s carrying his black coat over his right arm, making his bicep pop and pulling the fabric slightly. His other hand is resting on the back of his gorgeous new fuck buddy, who’s standing slightly in front of him. All cute couple like. Flashbacks of those big strong hands gripping my ass while he bent me over the DJ decks and made me see stars play like a home movie. Unfiltered. And most unwelcome. I’m too young for hot flashes, but right now I’m sure I could burst into flames. Marco instinctively reaches for me with the arm carrying his coat, but I step out of the elevator and away from his reach. He rears his head back slightly, puzzled by the animosity radiating from me. Before either of us can speak, a squeal pierces the silence.

“Look how good this pic turned out! All the colors work so well on my grid.” The attempt to happy dance in excitement at whatever she’s posted almost sends her tumbling to the ground, butMarco’s strong hands right her in time like the protective…what is he to her?

Fuck buddy? Lover? Boyfriend?

“These fucking boots! Man trap? Yes. Death trap? Also yes,” she says looking at him for a reaction, and instead realizing his attention is firmly trained on me.

“Oh! Hi, sorry I totally didn’t notice you there.” She looks from him to me as the silence stretches. “Marco, are you going to introduce me!” she exclaims with far too much exuberance.

The elevator dings, indicating it’s closed behind us.

Before speaking, Marco lifts his eyebrow, questioning my ice-cold reception. I glare back haughtily. A dare to fuck around and find out.

Chapter twenty-three

Ninety-Nine Problems

Marco

ThefuryburninginSophia’s glare is at odds with her icy reception. What in the actual fuck is going on right now? Our last text exchange was easygoing. Flirty almost bordering on sexting, given my line of questioning. Is that it? Is she mad at me because she asked for space and I insisted on trying to inch myself back in?

Even dressed down in leather leggings, chunky boots and a cream turtleneck, Sophia looks stunning. But it doesn’t escape me that she looks like she’s been crying. Did she have another fight with her dad over me? Honest to God, if he’s pressuring her to go on a date with motherfucking Arty, I won’t hesitate to confront him. The mighty Patrick Princi doesn’t scare me anymore. I sure as shit have no use for his money. Once fooled, twice shy and all that. A sharp jab to my ribs pulls me from my inner turmoil.

“Marco, don’t be rude. Introduce me to your friend.” Looking between each of us again, Chiara continues with uncertainty, “I’m assuming you two know each other. Yes?”

Clearing my throat which suddenly feels dry and scratchy, I do as the tiny taskmaster asks. “Chiara, this is Sophia Princi,Sop—”

But Chiara cuts me off before I have a chance to finish the introductions. I have a feeling this is going to be a common occurrence.

“Holy fuck. Are you Sophia Princi? As in Luca Princi, F1 superstar’s sister? Oh my God! He’s so delicious. And hilarious—have you seen his TikToks?”

Confusion swirls in Sophia’s eyes, and even red-rimmed they’re the prettiest eyes I’ve ever stared into. I hate the sadness I see there, even if she’s trying to hide it with this ice queen act. Reluctantly, Sophia extends her hand. “The very one and the same. But you can call me Sophia. More professional for the courtroom than ‘Luca’s little sister’.”

Her tone is clipped and her demeanor lacks the warmth that would usually disarm as intended.

“Oh yes, yes. Of course,” Chiara stammers, unsure how to take Sophia’s curtness.

The silence is deafening, and I’m confused as all hell as to what is going on right now.

“And what should I call you?”