A low chuckle escapes him and I relish it. “You’re still a mess, kid.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” I shoot back as I roll my eyes, annoyed. “And kid? Really? Lay off the babysitter vibe, huh?” My tone’s sharp, but I keep it light so he knows it is just a jab and not a fight. I’m not some child he can pat on the head, not after everything.
He glances at me, beaming. “Noted,” he says, dry, and his eyes linger a beat too long. My breath hitches, and I look away fast.
Chapter 4
Adriano
The silence in the SUV is a fucking chokehold, pressing down hard after her babysitter jab. My knuckles bleach on the wheel, the streetlights slicing her face in gold streaks.
Penelope’s slouched against the seat, legs crossed in that blue dress hiking up her thighs and flashing skin I shouldn’t clock. She’s twenty and way too young, too forbidden, too tied to Sophia. And I’m thirty-nine, too hardened to be this rattled.
But damn it, her scent—sweet, floral, spiked with beer that floods the car, clogging my lungs and having my pulse hammering like I’m some dumb kid again.
She shifts, snapping the quiet with a huff. “You’re brooding again.”
“Not brooding,” I grunt. “Driving.”
“Liar.” She twists toward me. “You’re all dark and moody over there like you always are. What’s always in that head of yours?”
“None of your damn business,” I say with a little edge in my voice, but she’s grinning, her dimples flashing, and it’s a sucker punch. She’s not the Penelope I remember, the quiet one who faded into Sophia’s orbit.
That was the Penelope of three years ago. I saw her today for the first time since the funeral and she’s a fucking wildfire now, bold and biting, and it’s screwing with me. I liked her better when she didn’t exist in my peripheral. Now she’s all I can see, her skin glowing, her dress hugging every curve I shouldn’t want, and legs I’d kill to spread open and—
“You’re staring,” she says, low, catching me. Her coffee-brown eyes glint, daring me to lie.
“Road’s ahead,” I mutter, jerking my gaze forward, but my cock’s twitching, waking up fast. She’s a brat, poking at shit she doesn’t understand, and I’m a bastard for letting her get this far under my skin.
“Uh-huh.” She leans closer, elbow on the console, breath brushing my arm. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”
“Christ, Penelope.” I roll my eyes, throat dry. “You’re drunk.”
“So?” Her fingers graze my sleeve, lightly. “Answer me.”
I shouldn’t. I should shut this down, dump her at her door, and bury it. But she’s relentless, heat rolling off her, and my walls are cracking like old plaster. One day—hours—since she walked back into my life, and I’m strung out, craving her like some pimply kid chasing his first lay.
I nod. “Objectively speaking.”
She tilts her head, watching me. “Objectively speaking? That sounds like you’re trying not to say something inappropriate.”
I smile. “I don’t try to do anything.”
Her laugh is soft but knowing. “You really don’t, do you?”
I don’t answer. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. I’m already breaking the rules just by taking her home. Indulging this back-and-forth, watching her shift in her seat, admiring the way the passing headlights skim over her skin—I’m testing my own limits. And I don’t like feeling out of control.
She leans closer, lowering her voice. “If you were trying to say something inappropriate, what would it be?”
I glance at her, my patience thinning. “Just try to sleep it off before we get to your house.”
Her smile widens. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting,” I say, voice rough.
She studies me like she wants to push further, to see how much I can take before I snap. Then she beams and shifts so her knee bumps mine. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Fuck’s sake,” I growl, glaring at her. “You’re fucking stunning, alright? Now sit back.”