Page 34 of His Little Angel

I slip into a black set, savoring the feel of silk and lace against my skin. It’s not for anyone else. It’s for me.

When Luke calls, I’m curled up on the couch in full glam. He’s waiting downstairs with that easy grin, and I catch myself twisting a strand of hair around my finger as I approach the car.

We drive in silence for a few blocks, city lights streaming across the windshield. The bar is small and messy, a jukebox playing some old rock song. It’s not what I expect the son of an oil tycoon to take me to, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t prefer it. We grab a booth near the corner.

“What’s your poison?” he asks, sliding the menu across the table.

“Whatever’s strong enough to make me forget adulting for a few hours,” I reply.

We order pizza and burgers, and then—because Luke is Luke—he drags me into some ridiculous drinking game. We flip cards, do shots, laugh like idiots. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My hair falls into my eyes, sticky from spilled soda, but I don’t care.

At some point, he shoves me toward the mechanical bull in the corner of the bar. “You’re riding it.”

I groan. “I’m way too sober for this kind of humiliation.”

“Too sober—or too sober to admit you’re going to love it?” he grins.

I mount the bull, gripping the reins, trying not to fall off. He climbs behind me, and despite the highly sexual position, all we do is laugh like maniacs as the thing jerks forward.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say between giggles.

When we finally climb down, I’m breathless and flushed. I let my hand brush his without thinking. He notices and smirks, not pulling away.

“That’s… a dangerous move,” he teases.

“Mm,” I murmur, letting it linger a second longer than necessary.

I like this. There’s no Enzo, no work, no judgment. Just this little chaos between us.

“Careful,” he says. “Or I’m going to think you’re asking for trouble.”

I bite my lip. “Maybe I am.”

We stay another hour before calling it a night. He drives me home—we didn’t drink enough to get drunk—but my mind isn’t on the streets or the music. I keep thinking about inviting him up. To feel something. Normal. Fun. Alive.

It’s not like I haven’t slept with anyone since I started working for Enzo. I did—but once Enzo started acting out of character, and it dawned on me that he might be attracted to me, I stopped.

“Thanks for tonight,” I murmur as he parks in front of my building.

He rests a hand lightly on my elbow, just enough to make me shiver. “No, thank you,” he says. “This was… good.”

I glance up at him and, on impulse, press a brief, delicate kiss to his lips. Just a peck. Nothing more. It feels like nothing.

“Bye, Luke,” I whisper, pulling back.

“Bye,” he says with a smile, not offended that I don’t invite him up, not pushing for more than I want to give.

He is perfect. God help me—I’m only ever attracted to the fucked up.

I close the car door gently and head to my floor. I step inside my apartment, flick on the light, and let my eyes adjust. Only to see Enzo sitting on my couch like he owns the place, one elbow resting on his knee, a half-finished glass of my whiskey dangling from his fingers.

My heart drops straight to the floor.

Luke is perfect—easy, normal. The kind of man any sane woman would want. The kind who wouldn’t sneak into her apartment and wait in the dark like a creep.

But I guess I’m not sane, because a sick, stupid part of me is drawn to Enzo—especially when he’s like this.

“Close the door,” he orders.