Page 37 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
“Your spinach and mushrooms looked perfect, so I added them to the frittata.”
Rand doesn’t respond, so I look back and startle, inhaling sharply at his nearness. He’s so close I could easily brush my lips along the sharp line of his cheekbone.
After last night, I’m starting to understand that the instant messages and keeping to our neutral corners were about preventing me from having a peek at his soft underbelly. But I see it anyway, clear as day. It’s in the sadness around his eyes when his father dresses him down in front of the rest of us, in the restrained excitement over a simple bowl of pasta, and in the private way he smiles when he thinks no one is looking.
But this right here—this soft invasion of my personal space—feels different. Like maybe he enjoys the company of men the same way I do. If I were to kiss his cheek, what would his reaction be? I imagine that kind of affection, if wanted, would be greeted with soft smiles and a sweet nuzzle in response.
Swallowing reflexively, I note that he’s got a freckle right above his dark golden eyelashes. Looking back down at the pan, I take a deep breath and gather myself. “I assume you like spinach and mushrooms because they were in your refrigerator. But you don’t hafta eat this if you don’t like it.”
More silence.
I check and, yep, he’s still right there. Blinking at me, gifting me with a few more glimpses of that dark freckle.
“What’s this mug you’ve got going on here?” I ask, using the spatula to gesture in a circle toward his face.
His placid look breaks, and he chuckles, crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes. I don’t think that was his intention, based on how he quickly schools himself.
“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “You know you don’t have to cook for me, right? That the terms of your employment—or your stay here, for that matter—do not cover culinary duties?”
I run my bottom lip through my teeth, straightening my posture. “I know that. I’m just not the kind of douche who’s gonna make a delicious frittata with perfectly crispy bacon and not offer you some. Also, I figure we should get our ducks in a row before meeting with the board today.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he nods. “You’re right. We should chat through the bullet points so we can present a united front. I do appreciate breakfast—my tyrannical trainer will be thrilled with your choices. Save for the bacon, but I trust you won’t rat me out.”
I chuckle to myself. “Wolfe, you know I was raised in the Mafia, right? You wanna know the first lesson my Sicilian grandfather taught me?”
The corner of his mouth hooks up into a grin. “Snitches get stitches?”
I shake my head. “Snitches get their firstborn killed. Believe me, your secret is safe with me.”
His eyes widen and he takes a step back. It’s possible I went in a little hard on the pre-coffee truths.
Laughing, I gesture at the distance between us, trying not to think about how much chillier my skin just got. “You do understand that saving your life means I don’t want to cause you harm, right?”
He waves me off. “Of course. I don’t fear you in the slightest.”
I raise my brow as I start plating breakfast. “That’s not to say it wouldn’t be smart of you to let me take the first bite though.” I hand him his plate. “That was lesson number two from Nonno.”
He playfully narrows his eyes and uses his fork to give me the go-ahead gesture. Dropping my eyes to my plate, I slice through the frittata with the edge of my fork, then jab the eggy bit of goodness and stuff it in my mouth, chewing slowly.
“Fanculo.”
“Something wrong?”
“Everything is so fresh. This is fucking delicious.”
“If you do say so yourself.”
I wink, and Rand swallows. He looks between my plate and his, calculating. I’m enough of a man to admit that these tiny windows into his persona are endearing as hell. He’s trying so hard to look like he’s in charge, but now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it. I suppose I should feel superior for having this knowledge, but it mostly makes me like the guy.
There are so many men like him in the mob. Acting like they’re not pissing in their pants when half of them just want to go home to Mama and forget anything happened.
Grinning like a madman, I finish my bite and reach over to his plate, cutting away a small corner of his frittata. Keeping eye contact, I slowly bring it to my mouth, chewing carefully before I swallow. His eyes track my Adam’s apple, his teeth scraping along his lower lip.
He spears a piece of the delicious egg mixture and manages to beat me at my own game. Locking eyes with me, he chews as he smiles, wiping a tiny bit of spinach from his plump lower lip. It’s a little fuller than his top lip, and it gives him a pouty, almost bratty look.
He’s so close that I’d barely have to lean in to suck that impudent lower lip into my mouth. Picturing it is way too easy: I’d take a few seconds to savor its taste before attacking his entire mouth, grinding against him until he loses his pretense of control and melts against me.
Yeah, I bet he’d like that a whole lot.
