Page 70 of Nash

“I said nothing sexy, nothing cute, nothing hot, and you heard me.”

I sashay toward Nash, seated on my loveseat with his arms thrown over the back like a king, while I confess, “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said it right next to you in bed this morning.”

“Yeah, but you were all like words, words, words, and my eyes were all like, ‘Look at this orgasmic man with muscles and ink beside you,’ so I wasn’t listening.”

“Well, then, hear me now; you’re not wearing anything short.”

“What?” I stomp my white golf sneaker. “You think I’m playing eighteen rounds in a hoop skirt? Shall I get the vapors and pass out for you, too?”

I press the back of my hand to my forehead, my eyes rolling while I drawl, “Oh,Naassshh. How can I play golf with all these sticks and balls you men are swinging? And then when you yell, ‘get in the hole,’ I’m overcome. What is a girl to do?”

He narrows his eyes. He wants to laugh. I can see it.

“You know,” he seethes, “it’s arousing for me to see you like this.” He lowers his gaze before combing up my bare legs. “Because no one else sure as fuck will.”

I flit my hand at him. “I like this whole jealous mafia man thing you have going for you. It really brings out your eyes.”

“I’m about to bring something else out to make you shut up and listen.”

I lift the hem of my dress. “Promise?”

“Vale!” he snaps. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’ll be real damn late if you keep freaking out about what I’m wearing because I only have three dresses left from my tournament days, and you popped a blood vessel in your eye at each one, so pick the lesser poison and let’s go.”

His lip snarls.

Damn, is he related to Elvis?

“The white one,” he insists.

“You don’t want me wearing the white one. It’s too thin, and my nipples get hard when I beat men, and then you’ll have to murder them, and all that blood will ruin my dress.”

He doesn’t answer. I’m getting too close to the truth.

“This one.” I smooth my dress. “I’ll match you in all black, and we’ll look cute together.”

“Yeah. That’s the look I’m going for.”

He deadpans because with each minute, Nash is going all Bratva on me. His gun is strapped to his ankle. His stainless steel belt buckle hides two small knives. He’d hide brass knuckles under his golf gloves, too, if he could.

On the drive over the bridge to the golf course, my knee won’t stop bouncing.

Three times, Nash glances over and sees it. “Ask.”

He knows I’m dying to. “Are you going to kill him? It’s killing me to know.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s hiding the truth behind his non-polarized sunglasses. They’re designed not to interfere with his depth perception and to turn me on at the same time.

Who knew I’d fall for a man so good at murder and my former favorite sport?

“Can I say something to him?”

He almost laughs. “Can I stop you?”

“Uh! I can control my mouth for a day.”

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