Page 31 of Precious Hazard

“On Instagram. Did you know that photos where I’m pouting get ten times more likes and comments than if I smile? See?” She turns her phone toward me.

I stare at the image of Tara in a skin-tight black minidress. With a champagne flute in her hand, she’s leaning back against the banister. Her chin is tilted to the camera, and her sinful blood-red lips are pursed as if she’s blowing a kiss.

“Delete that thing,” I growl as a zap of electricity shoots straight to my cock. “Now.”

“Don’t tell me you’re exactly like mysavagebrother,as you refer to ‘our lot.’ Do you have a problem with me being on social media just like Drago did with Sienna? Did you know that he actually got her account shut down? You would never lower yourself to that same barbaric level, would you?”

My left eye starts twitching.

“I guess not. So, hey, when they bring our meals out, don’t start eating right away. I wanna take a few shots. Pictures of food are almost as popular as the ones of me pouting.”

“Showing off what you eat online so a bunch of people you don’t even know can comment seems beyond idiotic to me,” I grumble. Still, that’s infinitely better than having sexy photos of her online for countless horny men to ogle and drool over what belongs to me.

I hate the idea of agreeing with my brother-in-law’s actions, but I need to find out how he managed to kill Sienna’s social media account. Because I have to do the same for my soon-to-be bride. Without her realizing my involvement, of course. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m jealous or something. It’s simply common decency. I can’t allow the Cosa Nostra’s second lady, for all intents and purposes, to saturate the internet with provocative photos of herself, now can I?Thankfully, she was appropriately dressed. Well, at least in the picture she showed me.

Wait.

What if she’s posted nudes, too?

My blood pressure skyrockets.

“Your newspaper, Signor DeVille.” The waiter sets a foldedNew York Timeson the table for me. As I’ve been a regular patron here for years, the owner is well aware that I like to browse the news while I dine.

Picking up the paper, I open it to the financial section, hoping that the latest on the markets will distract me from my current train of thought.

“Good God, DeVille. Are you for real?” The woman living rent-free in my gray matter laughs. It’s an annoyingly sexy sound.

I clench my jaw. “What?”

“An actual fucking newspaper? What are you, ninety? Hasn’t anyone told you that everything is online these days?”

“I’m not interested in clickbait journalism. Our world has become addicted to digital content. Some call it ‘news,’ but most of it is garbage. The widespread dissemination of misinformation will likely lead to the downfall of our society. And I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from cursing in public.”

She snickers again. It comes out sounding like a purr. Seductive. Smooth. Like a stroke of her tongue against my own.

“Okay. I just have to know one more thing.”

I turn the page to the overview of stock prices. “I’m listening.”

“Do you wear drawers under your breeches? You know, those thermal long johns to keep your kidneys warm. In the era you think you live in, it was considered scandalous to leave your home without them.”

The newspaper tears along the center fold, leaving two tattered halves dangling from my fisted hands. I pin Tara with a glare while fuming at her audacity. Meanwhile, she’s giggling like a total nutjob, pressing her hands over her mouth and struggling to properly breathe.

Damn her.

She’s being ridiculous. And cute.

The corner of my mouth quivers. Then, completely against my will, it quirks upward.

“Since we’re on the subject of my clothes, you haven’t returned my jacket,” I deflect, hoping this reminder will cause her to stop laughing because it’s proving to be annoyingly contagious. “I want it back.”

“Yeah, sorry. I kept forgetting at first, but then I decided to wash it. I was taught to always return whatever I borrow, cleaned. And, well, I left it in the dryer.”

I stare at her. “Youwashedit?”

“Don’t worry. I threw it in the delicate cycle.”

She put my Ermenegildo Zegna jacket in awashing machine. Perfect.

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