Page 96 of Wicked Sinner
Inever want to let this woman go.
I knew that already. But last night, today, right now—all of that has only made it more clear. I don’t care that she’s not one of the socialites in the Miami criminal underworld—I want hermorebecause of that. What I can’t figure out is how to make her happy when I can’t just walk away from everything that I’m meant to inherit. Everything that I need to prove to myself that I can do.
I don’t know how I can make her stay.
I look at her in the dim light of the moon, this woman who's just spent the day showing me what normal looks like. Her hair is still messy from our impromptu session in the car, and there's sand clinging to her clothes from the beach.
“Take me home,” I say softly, leaning back to run my fingers through her hair and look her in the eye. “Take me toyourhome for the night. I want to stay with you. Like I’m just some guy you brought home.”
An instant wariness fills her eyes. “You want to go home with me? Tomyhouse?”
“Yes. I want to see?—”
“No, you don’t,” she interrupts me. “It’s old. It needs work. It’s had the same curtains since I was five. My mattress is a spring-type my dad bought for a hundred and fifty dollars. The linoleum in the kitchen is turning yellow.”
"Bridget—"
“It’s not what you’re used to.” She looks at me desperately, and I reach for her, brushing a finger over her lower lip.
“I haven’t always lived in luxury,bellissima. I’ll tell you more about it later. But it’s fine. I won’t judge your home. I promise.”
She looks as if she’s not sure that she believes me. “Why?” she asks softly, and I wonder if I should answer her honestly.
“Because today was the best day I’ve had in years,” I tell her quietly. “Because since last night, I’ve felt like a new man. And I want to see your home. I want to seeyou, and that’s a part of it, Bridget.”
She swallows hard. “Okay,” she says finally, and my heart feels as if it’s suddenly lightened, as if a weight has lifted off of me.
“I’ll let security know to keep an eye on it tonight,” I tell her, reaching for my phone. “Just put in the directions for me.”
"As long as they stay outside and don't knock on the door unless someone's actually dying," Bridget says flatly, and I nod, stifling a laugh.
"Deal."
Twenty minutes later, we’re driving through the quiet suburban streets of her neighborhood. The houses here are modest but well-maintained, with small yards and mailboxes shaped like fish or flamingos. It's the kind of place where people know their neighbors' names and kids still ride bikes in the street. Bridget’s house is further off, isolated about ten miles from the neighborhood proper. As I pull into the parking lot of the garage, I hear her indrawn breath, see the look on her face at being home again.
It makes me feel like an asshole for ever taking her away, even if I still think my reasons weren’t entirely wrong. She couldn’t stay here alone and be safe, not pregnant with my child. But still…
I should have done it all differently. And it’s never been clearer than it is in this moment, as Bridget stares at her home, and I can tell she never wants to leave again.
It’s simple. There’s a small garden out front that’s empty and tilled right now, with no fences, no gates, no cameras, no keycards. No visible security.
It’s a home in a way that nowhere I’ve lived has ever been.
Bridget gets out without waiting for me to come around and open her door. She goes to a potted plant and fishes out a key, then pauses as we walk through the garage. For a long moment, I see her look at the cover over her Corvette, the project car she was working on the night I took her away from all of this. I can see the yearning in her face for her life, the life she no longer has, as long as she’s trapped in my penthouse.
Because she still is. Even if things are better between us, they haven’t fundamentally changed.
And then she gasps softly.
Stuck to the side door, I see, is a note. Bridget strides forward and pulls it off, her hands trembling. “It’s from Jenny,” she says softly. “I need to let her know I’m okay. She’s worried about me. She’s come here to check on me, and I wasn’t there…” She trails off, her voice trembling. “Caesar?—”
I let out a heavy breath. “You can text her from a burner,” I say finally. “But you’re going to have to find some reason to explain all of this to her later, and not to see her. Will she trust you if you say you can’t talk about it right now?”
Bridget bites her lip. “I think so,” she says finally, and I nod.
“Alright then.”
I get a burner for her out of the car while she unlocks the house, and meet her just inside of the kitchen. Bridget is turning on lights, and I see worn carpet and linoleum, chipped counters, old appliances. There’s worn but comfortable furniture, family photos on the mantel, books stacked on every available surface. It smells like vanilla candles and a hint of motor oil, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does. Maybe because it feels uniquely like Bridget.
