Page 15 of His Little Angel

He accused me of leaving to work for someone else, like I’d suddenly decide to betray everything I’ve done for three years. Like I’d just throw my integrity, the loyalty, the late nights, the mornings we spent alone in the office, out the window. It hurt. Not just a little—it gutted me. Three years down the drain, apparently, because he thought for even a second that I could do something like that.

It’s almost five, and Enzo is still in the office. Pacing, brooding, being Enzo. Not my problem anymore, because Veronica is handling everything now. And she’s amazing. Really. Smart, polished, capable.

Part of me wants to hate her for being perfect, for stepping into my world and maybe, eventually, intohis.But I can’t. She’s not the enemy.I am. I fell in love with him. That’s the mistake. That’smyfailure.

When he touched me, it felt like the world stopped. But then he asked about my personal life—if I’d met someone, if I was leaving for a man—and I realized that as much as I wanted to melt into him, it wasn’t his business. He doesn’t want me like that, so he doesn’t get to ask those questions.

“Okay, Veronica,” I say, rummaging in my bag for gum. “I’m heading out. You’re doing great. I’m sure you won’t miss me much.”

She nods. “Thanks. I’ll text if anything comes up.”

“Good luck,” I say, popping the gum into my mouth.

I don’t even look toward his office. I know how attuned I am to him—how I can hear him breathe from across the floor, howmy body knows his rhythm. But I won’t let myself fall any deeper than I already have.

I get into my car and turn the key, making a decision I’ve never made before. Tonight, I’m not responsible. Tonight, I don’t answer to anyone. I’m heading to a bar. I let myself imagine what it would be like to be just Mila. Not Mila for Enzo.Just me.

I drive to a bar I’ve never been to before, one on the outskirts of downtown, and push open the door to the smell of smoke and beer.

A man slides onto the stool next to me almost immediately. “You look like you’re working on a spreadsheet in your head,” he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He’s handsome, but Enzo is taller. More charismatic. Ugh.Fuck my mind.

“I’m… not.” But I totally was working on our new project’s spreadsheet, so he’s not wrong.

“One sip of alcohol and that neck’s gonna loosen up,” he says. “I promise.”

I snort. “And you are…?”

“Luke. Self-appointed therapist for uptight women. I take my job seriously.”

I almost roll my eyes, but he’s oddly disarming. “I’m not uptight,” I say quickly—another lie.

“Right. You’re just… on high alert.” His smile widens, and somehow it’s infectious. “Let me fix that. One drink, my treat. Deal?”

What’s the harm? I shrug. “Fine. One drink.”

The bartender slides the drink to me—it’s neon and absurd. I take a tentative sip, nearly choke, and Luke laughs. I can’t help it; a laugh bursts out of me too.

The alcohol does manage to loosen me up, and we trade ridiculous bets—who can order the dumbest cocktail, who canmake the other spill first. But Enzo is always there, lingering at the back of my mind. This time, I choose to ignore him.

Luke notices. “Someone on your mind?”

I glare. Enzo has always been a sensitive topic. “Maybe. Not your business.”

“Fair.”

That’s why I like this guy. He’s chill, fun, easy to be around. He breaks down my defenses without trying.

And I should want easy. Fun. Chill.

Instead, I want a complicated, emotionally constipated man.

Luke sets another shot glass on the bar in front of me, then tilts it toward my exposed stomach.

“Wait—what?” I squeak.

“It’s a stomach shot. Trust me. You just lean back. Relax.”