Page 22 of Money Reigns

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I watch her.

The way she sits, legs crossed delicately, posture straight. The way she tilts her head when she listens,really listens,to him.The way she smiles when he surprises her with more of that goddamn soup from the Amato’s Italian place she likes.

I didn’t know she liked La Serenata.

Now I know her order.

I know the way she holds the spoon.

I know that she always eats the crust of her sandwich last after peeling it away.

And I hate that he knows it too.

He gets the curve of her lips when they’re relaxed in a laugh.

All I ever get is tension.

Fear.

I lean back in my chair, eyes locked on the screen as she hands him a napkin. Her fingers brush his. He doesn’t flinch. Neither does she. That subtle touch sends a pulse of something sharp and possessive straight through me. He touches her like it’s casual. I’d make her remember my touch fordays.

I could have her.

Fuck, I want her.

Not just her body—thoughChrist,I think about it too often.

It’s the way she walks into every room like she doesn’t take up space. The way she tries to blend in. Tries not to be seen.

But I see her.

Ialwayssee her.

And maybe that scares her.

Brody says something. Her brows lift and she laughs again, head tilting, hair falling over her shoulder like she’s in a goddamn romcom.

He mentions a project I gave him in California.

In a few months.

That’stoolong.

That’s too much time.

I’ll make sure it happens sooner.

And then she does it.

The thing that turns irritation into full-blooded fury.

She asks him, “Are you friends with Mr. Beaumont?”

Mr. Beaumont.

Not War.

Not even Warren.

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