Page 202 of Filthy Promises

The protagonist is an insufferable idiot who can’t see what’s right in front of him, but Rowan laughs and swoons andawwwsat all the right parts, so I keep reading for the sheer sake of seeing that joy on her face.

Her bed rest has transformed our relationship in ways I never anticipated. Almost six weeks of forced proximity, of quiet conversations and shared meals means almost six weeks of learning each other without the constant interference of the world outside.

It’s starting to feel dangerously close tonormal.

“Your voice gets deeper when you read dialogue,” she observes in the middle of me working my way through a passage that involves some surprisingly graphic foreplay. She’s proppedagainst a mountain of pillows, but even still, I can see the crest of her belly tented beneath the bedsheets. “Especially when it’s the dark, tortured, brooding hero.”

I squint at her. “Are you implying I identify with the emotionally constipated asshole in this story?”

“If the custom Italian shoe fits…”

That smile.That’s the good shit. It’s not the polite one she uses with the staff or the careful, painted one she wore in those first days after our reconciliation.

This is the real one—the one that actually reaches her eyes and carves that small dimple in her left cheek.

I thought I might never see it directed at me again.

“I think I’ve been sufficiently cultured for one day,” I declare, snapping the book shut and imprisoning the too-blind-to-know-what’s-good-for-him hero to his own selfish fucking thoughts. “Any other demands, Mrs. Akopov?”

“Hmm.” She pretends to consider it seriously. “I wouldn’t say no to those cheese pastries Marta made yesterday.”

I check my watch. “It’s three in the morning.”

“And?”

“And Marta is asleep, like any sane person would be.”

Rowan’s lower lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. “But your child demands cheese pastries.”

“Suddenly, it’smychild? Convenient.”

“When it’s demanding dairy products at ungodly hours? Definitely your child.”

I sigh, already rising from my chair. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Her hand catches mine before I can leave. “I was kidding, Vince. Stay.”

The simple request freezes me in place. For weeks, we’ve been navigating this new territory—her in the bed, me in the nearby chair.

Close, but not too close.

Together, but still maintaining the boundaries she established.

But something has shifted tonight. I can feel it in the air between us. An easing of tension. An inhale, not a taut, held breath.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

She nods, scooting over to make room beside her. “Tell me a story.”

“I just read you half a book.”

“Not from a book.” Her green eyes hold mine. “Tell me something about you. Something I don’t know yet.”

I settle carefully beside her on the bed, maintaining a respectful distance while still close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo—a clean, floral aroma that reminds me of spring.

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Something good. From before.”

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