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11

SAbrINA

T his must be what the aftermath of a battle feels like. Everyone is bruised and wandering around in a stupor while trying to shake off the shellshock.

Today, Monte and I are being overly polite but we’re on unsteady ground. The echoes of last night’s explosive argument still hang in the air.

I’m not angry anymore. A little embarrassed, but not angry. I don’t believe he’s angry either.

But things were said that can never be unsaid. This puts us in a strange state of purgatory the morning after.

The confines of the motel room feel cursed and we’re stuck here until tomorrow. There’s a coffee shop a block away and Monte demands the right to walk me down there, although he’s not cranky when he insists.

Instead, he’s almost shy. Excessively courteous. The opposite of the real Monte. And I don’t like it.

No one would accuse Monte Castelli of being hesitant. If he wants to toss you over his shoulder and bodily haul you up two flights of stairs then that’s exactly what he’ll do. Unapologetic alpha energy. I wouldn’t want him to be any other way.

But he’s always refused to overstep any limits with me. There were times when I kind of wished he would and yet felt comforted by the fact that he could be counted on to maintain a safe distance.

The last few days of being on the run after the New York catastrophe have taken a serious toll. We’re getting too close too fast. More than friends, less than lovers. Combine that with a blistering mutual physical attraction that’s now been confirmed, it was only a matter of time before one of us broke.

“You’ll stay here?” Monte asks after I get settled in a corner booth with a latte and snacks.

I haul my laptop out of my backpack. “Yes. My plan is just to work all day.”

He nods with obvious relief that I’m speaking to him as if everything is normal. His eyes are a little bleary but otherwise he looks insanely good. Only Monte could strut around in old jeans with a faded blue tee and somehow look like he belongs on a Times Square billboard.

Women stare at him all the time. The girl working behind the counter is staring at him right now. She fills a customer’s cup, flicks her eyes in Monte’s direction yet again, and ends up so distracted that she spills hot coffee on her hand and yelps.

“What are you going to do now?” I ask him.

He shrugs and scans the surroundings with a cautious eye. This is his constant routine, to appraise the threat level everywhere he goes.

“I’ll keep busy somehow,” he says and hooks his right thumb over a belt loop.

Our eyes meet.

I won’t say a word about last night’s drama if he won’t. I’d be far too mortified to admit that my shock and fury at his mocking confession were joined by an illicit thrill.

If Monte had touched me, really touched me, what would I have done?

I might have begged him not to stop.

Or I might have run away.

But that’s the core of this wild contradiction. I desperately want Monte to touch me. And I’m terrified of what would happen if he ever did. This has nothing to do with him. My hang-ups are my own problem.

Monte cracks a grin that’s half boyish, half bashful. For better or for worse, that smile has staked a claim on every centimeter of my heart.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” I say to him.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, you either.”

I make an X sign over my chest. “Cross my heart.”

He doesn’t have the discipline to stop his gaze from wandering over my breasts. He’s quick, but I see it. And now I recognize the intense flare of hunger in his eyes. The same one I saw last night.

And yes, I might have intentionally chosen my tightest shirt to wear today. The one that strains to contain my oversized boobs and has enough of a scooped neck to show off just a little cleavage.

Why not? I can wear whatever the hell I want.

The door swings open and a man breezes in. He’s sweaty, dressed for jogging. He’s probably in his mid-twenties and he’s not bad looking but he’s nothing next to Monte.

The guy collects his order of some odious looking green drink that’s probably made of pureed spinach. He smiles at the cashier and is clearly harmless but that doesn’t keep him from the crosshairs of Monte’s suspicious glare. He doesn’t even look our way as he hurries outside, cradling his spinach drink.

Monte only relaxes when he’s out of sight and then he withdraws his wallet. He pulls out a handful of twenties and throws them down on the table. “Here. This should be enough for you to keep the coffee and croissants coming all day.”

“Thanks, but my bank access has been restored, remember?”

“Take it anyway.”

“As hush money?”

Usually, he would catch my teasing tone and fire back with sarcasm.

But today he just says, “As my treat,” and starts to walk away. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I’ll do that.”

I wonder if anyone has ever told him how great his ass looks in jeans. Probably.

Now that I’ve been deprived of my Monte eye candy, I take a deep dive into the wonderful world of zombie killing via computer code. My noise canceling headphones are perfect for tuning out the real world while I get lost in a world of my own making. I’m pleased with my progress but I’m looking forward to returning to game design school. The place is full of brilliant people who share my interests and I love the creative energy.

Every once in a while I approach the counter for a refreshment refill. The cashier’s name is Katie and she’s friendly enough to watch my stuff whenever the lattes hit my bladder and I need to run to the restroom.

“There’s your boyfriend again,” Katie points out upon my latest return from the restroom.

Sure enough, Monte stands just outside the glass doors, squinting to see inside. I wave at him to prove that I haven’t run off and left the state. He nods and walks away. I’m starting to wonder if he’s just hanging out around the corner so he can check up on me all day. How adorably obsessive.

“Overprotective, isn’t he?” Katie teases with a wink.

“All that and more,” I agree, once again enjoying the view of his backside. If Monte is going to stalk me then I can stare at his ass. That’s the way things work.

“Lucky girl,” Katie says and hands me an oatmeal raisin cookie, which I’m happy to accept. I haven’t corrected her assumption that Monte is my boyfriend. It’s too much trouble. Besides, I don’t have a word for whatever Monte and I are to each other.

The coffee shop closes at five and Monte is already waiting. Maybe he was afraid I’d get lost and wind up at the quilting convention.

“The car will be ready tomorrow by ten a.m.,” he says and automatically plucks my backpack out of my hand to carry it himself.

“Good. A change of scenery will be nice. By the way, I’m still paying for the car repairs.”

He snorts. “We’ll fight about it tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait. Let’s call a truce until then.”

“Done. Just lay off the liquor tonight.”

“ME?” I swear, I’d push him right off the curb if I wasn’t afraid he’d drop the backpack. My laptop is inside and I can’t risk breaking it.

He peers down at me with a wicked grin. I can imagine swooning, except nobody really does that and the sidewalk is dirty.

We avoid the Mexican restaurant that was our undoing last night and find a casual hamburger grill that’s full of cheerful elderly women who look like the quilt convention type of people.

They are all very happy and very animated, which makes the restaurant quite loud. This is for the best. The two of us are still in an uncomfortable place, although we’ll have to get over it because tomorrow we’ll be confined to a vehicle again.

And after that?

I really don’t know.

On my end, I can’t wait to see Anni and little Jane. I don’t plan to leave Colorado until I get my fill of hugging my sister and cuddling that precious baby girl.

As for Monte’s plans, he hasn’t said a word. Luca is his best friend so he has good reason to stick around for a visit. Then there’s the New York situation. I try not to think the worst but he changes the subject whenever I bring it up.

No matter what, I’m not ready to say goodbye to him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that.

Dinner ends up feeling like an awkward first date but we’re not eager to see it end because then we’ll have to return to our motel room, which now feels like the scene of a crime.

We order way too much food and only eat half of it. We make small talk about trivial topics. Monte asks questions about Sicily. He’s never been there but the village where his great-grandparents are from is one I’ve passed before.

He seems surprised when I ask him eager questions about his early life. To his thinking, his upbringing was ordinary and unremarkable. But I never had a normal childhood. I grew up in a Long Island mafia castle under the thumb of a cruelly dictatorial father who resented my existence.

Monte, on the other hand, grew up in a raucous and often tough neighborhood where he was encouraged to be street smart and independent. He worked at Gino’s from the time he was in grade school. He speaks of his father and grandfather with loving reverence.

But his expression darkens when he mentions his Uncle Vinny. The way I understand it, Vinny was the one who brought Monte and Nico into the mafia fold. Vinny was gunned down a couple of years ago and Monte clearly doesn’t wish to discuss it.

“What about your cousins?” I say as a way to change the subject. “The ones who own the ranch?”

I assumed this would be a more harmless topic, but from the way his eyes jerk up and his shoulders stiffen with tension, I guess I was wrong.

“We’re not close anymore,” he says and refuses to elaborate.

A minor victory is scored when I pretend to go use the restroom but instead track down our waiter and settle the tab.

“Why do you look like the cat that just ate the canary?” he says when I return to the table.

“Because I paid for dinner and there’s nothing you can do about it.” I stick my tongue out for emphasis. “I win.”

He gives me one of his classic eye rolls. “What is it you’ve won? The right to feed me?”

“Doesn’t matter what I’ve won. I just won. Admit it.” I sip the last inch of my soda through a straw.

He crosses his arms and focuses on my mouth. His stubborn gaze turns blazing, drops down to my chest and then roams back up to my face.

“No,” he says.

A surge of heat zings between my legs. I resist the urge to fidget as his eyes remained locked on mine. I get the impression he understands my angst and is amused, giving me a mortifying flashback to snippets of last night’s showdown.

“You and your games, Sabrina. Quit trying to tempt me…”

Monte has known all along that I want him. He understands people and he understands sex far more clearly than I do. Where he’s concerned, I’ve always been way out of my depth.

I’m not really looking forward to going back to the motel but there’s little choice. He seems equally reluctant and leaves the room almost immediately to stand around outside and talk to Nico. At least there’s no rain tonight so he won’t get drenched out there.

It’s nearly eleven by the time he returns to the room for good. I’m already in bed and wearing my pajamas.

“You going to sleep soon?” he asks while pawing through his duffel bag and not looking at me.

I stop scrolling idly through my phone and watch his movements. He stuffs the Gino’s Pizzeria tee in his bag and now I really wish I hadn’t returned it to him in a temper tantrum. I want it back. Maybe tomorrow I’ll scrounge up the guts to ask. He’ll guess the reason why but I think we’ve already established that I’m no mystery to him.

“Yeah, I’m tired.” I plug my phone in and pull the blankets up to my chin.

Monte switches the light off and wanders into the bathroom. He’s not in there for long and my vision has already adjusted to the darkness when I watch his hulking shadow climb into bed. I want to say something to him but before I can sort out exactly what, I fall asleep.

The next morning, I’ve slept later than I meant to and sunlight filters into the room. Monte is awake and freshly showered. He sits on his bed, wearing only a pair of jeans and frowning at his phone.

Why does he have to be so hot all the time? He never even has a bad hair day because the messier he is, the sexier he is.

This is all terribly unfair.

I haven’t moved a muscle as I admire him in silence but he must have heard my hormones raging because he looks up.

“The car is ready,” he says. “Just received the text.”

I sit up and push an unruly nest of hair out of my face, aware that I probably resemble a rodent crawling out of its burrow. “Can I come with you to pick it up?”

He studies me with raised eyebrows. “You don’t look like you’ll be ready to leave anytime soon.”

To prove him wrong, I jump out of bed. Land on my bad ankle. Stifle a few curses. “Give me twenty minutes.”

All I need to do is brush my teeth, shower, dry my hair and get dressed. Bigger miracles have happened.

A few minutes later, I’m stepping out of the shower when I hear a loud bang and a man’s shout, followed by other voices. Deep voices. Fear shoots up my spine. Scuffling noises ensue and then an ominous silence.

“Sabrina,” calls a familiar voice from the next room. “Come out here right now.”

With shaking fingers, I snatch a bath towel and wrap it around my body. I’m petrified of what I’ll find when I open that door but I cannot leave Monte out there alone.

Water drips from my skin and my heart pounds as I crack open the door.

A horrible sight awaits.

The other night I joked that there’s no way the mafia could possibly track us down at some obscure roadside motel.

What a time to be wrong.