Page 113 of Steal My Heart
He tents his fingers, looking at me with a mix of hostility and…is it pride? “What are your terms?”
“I’m out.”
He scoffs. “You were never in.”
“Then you’ll have no problem wishing me goodbye.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Remi
“And here I thought the relationship with my dad was fucked up.”
Angelo laughs mirthlessly.
“‘Pure Spite.’ Your tattoo is starting to make more sense.” I grab his hand, examining his left index finger. I’ve never noticed, but it is a teensy bit crooked. “Not to mention your brother is a jerk. I’m sorry.”
“C’est la vie.Isn’t that what you said?” He takes my hand into his, giving it a squeeze.
“But how did your dad get you back here, if you had all that dirt on him?” I wonder.
“Dirt on a dying man is worthless; he had nothing to lose. But even if I had exposed him, my father was one step ahead. He’d already bribed the dean to get me kicked out of school on bogus cheating allegations.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “And maybe I did want to stick it to my brother by becoming boss, if I’m being honest.”
“What happens with you and your brother now?”
“I don’t know. And I hate that answer.” Bringing our hands to his mouth, he presses a kiss to the top of mine. He flips my hand, examining it. “You read my palm, but what does yours say?”
Suddenly, this game isn’t nearly as fun when I’m on the vulnerable end of it.
“I’m stubborn. Determined. Ambitious. I wear rose colored glasses, sometimes to my detriment.” Things he already knows about me.
“You are the most optimistic woman I’ve ever met,” he agrees.
“Are you still deciding whether that’s a good or bad thing?” I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s an endearing thing.” He playfully flicks my nose with his crooked finger. “You say I have a photographer’s marking on my palm; do you have a musician’s?” Angelo wonders.
“This one,” I move my finger, tracing the line, “is the Mount of Apollo; it’s pretty well defined, suggesting I have a musical bent.”
“I think you have more than a bent; you’re a natural born star,” he tells me.
A grin stretches across my face. “Maybe one day.” I attempt to pull back my hand, but Angelo keeps it firmly in place.
“What does your heart line say?” he asks.
“I didn’t read your heart line,” I argue, my own heart skipping a beat.
“Read yours, and then you can read mine,” he challenges.
My cheeks flush as I trace my heart line. I could sell him some bullshit, but I choose honesty. “Mine is a long, prominently etched Love Line without breaks. Meaning I want a deep, lifetime connection. All or nothing.” Switching out my palm for his, he allows me to flip it over. “Yours is a short Love Line.” I trace the etched line that stops abruptly. “You like orderand control versus getting caught up in the emotional intensity of a relationship; that’s why you keep your partners at arm’s length.”
“Perhaps thatwastrue, but only because I didn’t have enoughjoie de vivre.I’m beginning to see the error of my ways.” He gently strokes my cheek with his thumb. “And what of this marking? We both have a similar one.” Dropping his hand, he points out the mark where the Heart Line and the Love Line intersect on both of our palms.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “Above my palmistry pay grade. And before you ask for a refund, all sales final.”
We’ve scooted closer to where we’re sharing the same breath. “I love being hustled by you,” he says.
“What if I’m not hustling you?” We’ve both been teetering on the edge, neither one of us willing to be completely vulnerable. I may get my heart broken, but how will I ever find out if I don’t jump? “All or nothing. I’m in, but I have to know that you are too,” I whisper.
