Page 14 of Wicked Mistletoe

With each step, the tension coils tighter in my chest. My hand hovers near the holster, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.

And then I see it. And suddenly I feel ridiculous. My hand falls away from my weapon as my eyes focus on the shape on the ground.

It’s just a bouquet of flowers.

But not just any flowers.

Azaleas.

What the?—

I crouch down to get a closer look. My heart’s still pounding, but now it’s for an entirely different reason. The flowers are beautiful—purplish-red petals, wide and funnel-shaped, stand out vividly against the deep green foliage tinged with reddish–bronze at the edges.

A spicy, heady scent wafts up as I carefully lift the bouquet by its white wrapping. My lips stretch into a pleased smile despite myself, and a thrill I can’t quite squash rises up.

Rafael.

Only he would send me Azaleas.

Cradling the bouquet in my arms, I’m mindful not to let the flowers touch my skin as I unlock my front door. Beautiful as they are, Azaleas are poisonous. I’m not sure if mere contact is enough to cause a reaction or if indigestion is the real danger, but I’m not about to find out, thank you very much.

Pretty, but deadly. Just like the sender.

Before I go in, I shoot another glance around the hallway. Still empty. Okay. The door opens directly into the living room,and as I shut it behind me, something flutters from the wrapping around the flowers.

A card.

I deposit the bouquet on the coffee table before going back to the doorway to pick up the fallen card. The moment I see the hard, masculine scrawl, I’m transported back in time. It’s the same handwriting I remember from our tutoring sessions.

Have dinner with me. Be ready by 8.

–R.

My mouth goes dry. Typical Rafael. Not a request, not a polite invitation—anorder.

I stare at the card, heart thudding as realization sinks in.

This isn’t just dinner. It’s a date. And not just any date…

A date with the leader of the Nightshades.

Exactly eight o’clock. Right on time.

My heels click softly against the marble lobby floor as I make my way toward the exit. Running a shaky hand down my coat, I smooth it out, while silently reminding myself to breathe.

You’ve got this.

The revolving door spits me out into the freezing winter air, and I have to bite back a curse as the cold slaps me in the face. My eyes immediately land on the sleek, black limo parked at the curb, and I frown. Seriously? This is a no-parking zone, but it seems whoever owns that car doesn’t give a damn. I glance around, searching for any sign of Rafael.

Where is he?

The limo’s driverside door swings open, and out steps a mountain of a man. Salt-and-pepper hair crowns a face that screams ‘don’t mess with me.’ If I passed him on the street, I’d probably mistake him for a bouncer or high-end security.Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.But as he approaches, a small smile softens his hard features.

“Good evening, Miss Rossi. I’m Alfred, Mr. Moretti’s driver.”

Rafael’s driver.Oh. So, he didn’t come to pick me up himself. Disappointment flares, quickly followed by a flicker of annoyance. What did I expect? A grand, romantic sweep-off-your-feet entrance?Get real.I shake it off and cast another glance at the limo with new eyes as Alfred opens the door for me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding into the plush interior where warmth instantly embraces me. Shrugging off my coat, I flip my hair over my shoulder before fastening my seatbelt. Alfred gets back behind the wheel, and we’re off.

---