Page 11 of Claimed By the Possessive Mafia Prince
“Why’d you run away?” I set her plate down.
“It’s not my place to be at the party. I should be invisible, making sure everything goes without a hitch. That’s my only concern.”
“You’re not invisible.”
Her lip twitches at my comment. “Thanks, I guess.”
“I heard you’re taking the reins for Evermore.”
“My boss is sick, so yeah, the weight is on my shoulders now. I won’t lie, I’m nerv—” She catches herself. “I’m going to make this the best event your parents could hope for.”
“Relax, I’m not going to report anything you say.”
“Seriously, I’m going to do my best.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great, Siena, but you need a work-life balance too. I hope you find time to enjoy yourself.”
“I’m not here to enjoy myself.”
“If you were, what would you do?”
“Huh?”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Fun,” she repeats like the concept is foreign to her.
I chuckle. “It’s this thing where you don’t walk around looking like you’re searching for someone to punch.”
“Oh–that’s not how I look, is it? I don’t want to sour the experience for anybody.”
Guilt grips me at the thought that I might have caused her to worry. I squeeze her hand, don’t even think about it. “I was only kidding. My mother was just singing your praises, in fact. I think the only person you look like you want to punch is me.”
She looks down at my hand touching hers, her honey eyes filled with conflict, then pulls away. “You got me soaked this morning.”
Don’t remind me, Siena.I still vividly remember her image, soaked and with her clothes clinging to her. “I think you did that to yourself.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d been a gentleman and fallen in sooner.”
“I’ve been accused of being many things, but never a gentleman.”
She leans forward. “I should get back to work.”
“First, you need to eat something.”
She picks up a lobster leg. “If I eat something, will you let me get on with it?”
“I don’t want you running yourself ragged. We’ve got a whole week ahead of us.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.” She pales. “Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“You better not start being all fake nice to me now just because you know who I am. Be yourself.”
She looks into my eyes, seeming playful despite herself. “You might regret saying that.”
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
She bites her lip, then quickly lets it go. Any time she allows her mood to change her features, she instantly gets annoyed with herself.
