Page 13 of Wicked Sinner

I hate that a part of me wondered if he’d come back, before I stopped wanting him to.

It was stupid and weak, and I hate it even more now, knowing what I know.

Men like Caesar Genovese don't come back for women like me.

They take what they want and move on to the next conquest, the next challenge, the next woman who catches their eye.

I'm nobody to him. Just another notch on his bedpost, another story to tell his friends about the small-town mechanic who was naive enough to fall for his charm. Who devoured him like she’d never get another chance to be with a man like him.

That night, I felt like we were equals in desire—the only thing we could ever be equal in. But that feeling has slipped in the weeks that passed, replaced by something else.

The radio is playing "Dream On" by Aerosmith when I see the headlights sweeping across the garage doors. I freeze, my wrench suspended in mid-air, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest.

It's nearly midnight. Nobody comes to the shop this late unless it's an emergency. And I recognize the headlights of the car. It’s not someone who had a car problem and needs my expertise.

It's him.

I know it with absolute certainty, even before I see the sleek silhouette of the Ferrari pull into the lights, into the exact same spot he occupied three weeks ago.

Caesar Genovese has come back.

And I am absolutely not ready for this.

I set down my wrench with hands that are suddenly shaking, wiping my palms on my coveralls as I watch him get out of the car.

Even from a distance, even in the dim light, he's breathtakingly beautiful. Tall and lean and perfectly put together, like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine. As gorgeously handsome as he was the first night he showed up here, except this time he’s in a suit instead of jeans.

Or part of one, anyway. He’s not wearing a jacket or tie, his sleeves rolled up to show off muscular, tattooed forearms, but the suit looks expensive, and something about it makes me think he came from somewhere important.

The kind of place I wouldn’t, and would never want to be welcomed.

My stomach knots as he walks toward me, his gait easy, his eyes searching. I’m not ready for this conversation. I hadn’t planned to have it.

Maybe I can just throw him out.

I don’t have to fall prey to weakness like that first night. I can stand firm and tell him to go away. That it was only supposed to be one night, and that’s all I wanted. I don’t have to have this conversation—he can just leave, and it will be over.

I’ll figure everything else out on my own.

I force myself to move, to step into the light where he can see me. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look casual, trying to hide the way my pulse is racing.

"We're closed," I call out, my voice sharper than I intended. "Whatever you want, you'll have to come back during business hours."

He stops walking, and I can see his face clearly now. Those dark blue eyes, that sharp jawline, that mouth that I've been dreaming about for three weeks. He looks surprised by my tone, like he expected me to be happy to see him.

“You said that the last time,” he chuckles, as if we’re sharing a joke. “I think we’re past that, don’t you?”

“No,” I say flatly. “I don’t. I didn’t ask you to come back. Just like I didn’t give you my number or ask for yours. Wasn’t that a hint, Caesar?”

"Bridget." My name sounds different in his voice, softer somehow. "I know it's late. I was hoping we could talk."

“Talk about what?” I glare at him, and he pauses a foot or so away from me, clearly confused by my animosity.

Which is fair, I suppose, given how our night ended last time.

“We didn’t talk much before. I don’t think the conversation will be better this time.

And I’m not interested in a second round. ”

“Is this because I didn’t come back?” He lets out a sharp breath. “I didn't think you'd want me to call. I thought… I thought it was understood that it was just one night."

“I didn’t give you my number,” I remind him. “I understood it perfectly. So why are you here?”

He still looks confused by my sharp tone. I’d be confused too if I were him. I should be fine. We ended things the way they should have ended. It should all be okay, even if I don’t want him here.

But I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. And seeing him standing there, looking perfect and untouchable while I'm falling apart, makes me want to scream. My emotions are not in control, and it’s becoming more and more evident by the moment.

"Because you don't get to just show up here whenever you want," I say, my voice rising. "You don't get to waltz back into my life like nothing happened, like you have some kind of claim on me."

Caesar frowns. "I don't think I have a claim on you."

"Then what are you doing here?" I snap, and he lets out a breath.

He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see that he's struggling with something. Good. I hope he's as confused and off-balance as I am.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he admits finally. "I had to see you again."

I cross my arms. "Well, congratulations. You've seen me. Now you can go."

Caesar looks at me like he can’t imagine why I’m being so difficult. “Look, I know showing up here again wasn’t the best idea, but I'm here now. Can we just… can we talk?"

“About what?” I demand. “About how you think you get whatever you want? That you probably think you can just snap your fingers and I'll drop everything to fuck you?"

"It's not like that." Now he sounds defensive, much like I did earlier.

“Then what is it like?” A warm, humid breeze blows past us, and I can smell his cologne. My entire body tightens with the memory of him above me, below me, against me, and I do my best to shake it off.

He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his words, trying to figure out how to say whatever it is he came here to say.

“I want you,” he says finally. “I want you for more than a night, Bridget. And I can make your life easier.”

I tense at the implied judgment I hear in his words, even if he doesn’t mean for it to be there. Arrogant as he is, I assume that he does. "My life is fine."

"Is it?" He glances around the garage, taking in the old equipment, the worn tools, the overall aged look of the garage.

"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're struggling.

Like you're working yourself to death just to keep your head above water. There’s probably a stack of unpaid bills in that office, am I right? "

"That's none of your business."

Caesar crosses his arms. "It could be my business. If you let it be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

He takes another step closer. If I moved forward, we’d be close enough to touch. I can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, and I get the sense that this conversation isn’t going exactly as he thought it would.

Good. I didn’t want to have it at all.

"It means I can help you," he says quietly. "I can make things easier for you. I can give you security, comfort, anything you want."

“I didn’t ask you for anything.” I glare at him. “You presumptuous asshole. What makes you think I want what you can give me? I can guess what you’d want in return.”

Something flares in his eyes. “I’d want you to be mine.”

I laugh. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend? That’s a dramatic way to go about it.”

“No, I—” Caesar runs his hand through his hair. “There are expectations that come with my family name, Bridget. It’s archaic, but it’s how it is. I have to marry someone that matches those expectations, but I don’t have to love them. I’m not going to love them. And I don’t have to be faithful.”

The words hit me like a slap. I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying, what he's asking for. “Wait—” I draw a breath. “Are you engaged?”

“Not yet—”

“And you want to give me… what?”

“Anything you want.” Caesar spreads his hands. “Money for the shop. An apartment in the city. That’s preferable, actually, so we’re closer to each other. A credit card for you to use as you like. If there’s more—”

"You want me to be your mistress," I interrupt him, my voice deadly quiet. Of all the ways that I thought this conversation would go, it wasn’t this. I hadn’t even begun to imagine this, and now I’m so insulted that anger floods me, making me want to slap him.

Caesar just looks frustrated. "I want you to be with me."

"While you're married to someone else."

"It's complicated."

"It's not complicated at all," I snap. "I’m not a whore, Caesar. You can’t pay me for sex while you go home to your wife."

"Don't say that—"

"Why not? That's what you're asking for, isn't it? You want to set me up in some apartment somewhere, keep me like a pet, visit me whenever you need a break from your real life?" I stare at him, aghast. “I knew you were a selfish, rich asshole, but I didn’t think it was this bad—”

"It's not like that,” he protests again, and I feel my cheeks flush with anger.

"Then what is it like?" I'm shouting now, all of my control finally snapping. "Explain it to me, Caesar. Explain how this arrangement is supposed to work. Explain how I'm supposed to feel when you go home to your wife. Explain how I'm supposed to be okay with being your dirty little secret."

“You don’t want the kind of people I know to know you, Bridget,” he says, his voice taking on an edge now, as if he’s growing too frustrated as well. “You’re better off—”

“Don’t tell me how I’m better off! You think you can just throw money at me and I'll forget about self-respect? You think you can buy me like you bought that car?"

"I'm not trying to buy you—"

"Aren't you? You're offering me money, security, a nice apartment. What would you call that?"

"I'd call it taking care of someone I care about."

"You don't care about me," I say, my voice breaking slightly. "You don't even know me. You know my name and what I look like naked, but you don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." His lips press together. “Bridget—”

"You know nothing." Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back.

I refuse to let this man see me cry. "You know nothing about me, about what I want, about what I need.

You just assume that because I'm poor, because I'm alone, because I was stupid enough to sleep with you, that I'll be grateful for whatever scraps you throw my way. "

"That's not what I think." Caesar’s jaw clenches, and I force myself to ignore how handsome he is. How fucking good he looks standing in my parking lot.

“You thought I’d be impressed with your money and your swagger.” I glare at him. “You think I'm so desperate for security that I'll compromise everything I believe in just to be with you."

“I think you’re incredible—”

“In bed,” I finish. “That’s all you know about me. And that’s all you’re ever going to know. Get the fuck out, Caesar. We’re done here.”

“Bridget, I’m trying—”

“I don’t need you to try! Just get out!”

“Bridget, I’m offering you everything I can give—”

For a moment, I’m almost caught up by the note of desperation I hear in his voice.

He wants me. He wants me so badly he’s standing here in my parking lot arguing with me, when he could walk into any club or bar in Miami and walk out with a girl on his arm.

There’s something heady about that, something seductive, but I refuse to be drawn in by it.

The fact that it does tempt me makes me angrier than ever.

"You're offering me nothing!" I scream. "You're offering me a life in the shadows, a relationship built on lies and secrets and shame. You're offering me a future where I have to pretend I don't exist whenever your real life gets in the way. Where I’m something dirty and hidden—"

“I would never—”

“You are.” I shake my head. “That’s how cheating works, Caesar. The wife gets a ring and respect, and always comes first. The mistress gets the apartment and the allowance and the promise that she'll never be more than a footnote in your life."

"You're not a footnote,” he protests, and something in me snaps.

“I’m not anything!” Those tears burn in my eyes again, and I force them back. "I'm nothing to you. I'm just some girl you fucked in a garage three weeks ago, and now you want to fuck me again. And you’re nothing to me, and I don’t want to fuck you again."

It’s a lie. But I’m not going to tell him that. And eventually, I tell myself, I won’t want him. I won’t even like the memory of him.

Not after how this has all turned out.

“Bridget, if you would just listen to me—”

“I’m done listening. You’ve done enough. Just get out—”

“I haven’t done nearly enough—”

“I’m fucking pregnant!”

I shout the words before I can stop myself, as if they’re some magic incantation that will get this conversation over with.

Surely, surely, a man like Caesar will turn tail and run the moment he hears the truth.

Surely the last thing in the fucking world he wants is to be yoked to a broke mechanic because of a child from a one-night stand.

But instead, he just stands there, frozen, his eyes locked on mine. “Say that again,” he murmurs, and I stare back, wondering why he isn’t already running.

“I’m pregnant, Caesar. I’m going to have your baby.”