Page 58 of Flawed

"That's not necessary. Plus, I don't have a guestroom," I insist.

"You can't be on your own right now. I'll stay on your couch."

"You can't stay on my couch, Massimo."

He crosses his arms. "And why can't I do that?"

The humor in a Marino sleeping anywhere but in luxury hits me. I laugh, stating, "You're Massimo Marino—billionaire—trillionaire—whatever the hell you are. I doubt you've ever slept on a couch your entire life."

He grunts. "Well, that's not true. I used to sleep on the couch all the time when I was a kid. Ask anybody."

I reiterate, "You really don't have to stay. I'll be fine."

"Sorry, Chanel, but it's your place or mine. Which one do you prefer?" he threatens.

There's no way I can go to the Marino mansion and stay there. What would I tell them? 'Hey, I'm just going to chill out in your house for the night.' Yeah, like that's not going to raise any questions.

"You have to pick," he orders.

"Fine. My place," I grumble.

He grins. "Good. Let's get out of here. I'm starving."

My stomach growls. I admit, "Me, too."

"I think it's a pizza and ice cream night. What do you say?" he questions.

I nod. "Sounds good."

"Great. I'll order it on the way," he declares, then pats the wheelchair. "Let's go."

"I don't need that," I claim.

"They won't let you go without it. Unless you want me to carry you?" he smirks.

I groan and sit in the chair.

Massimo wheels me through the hospital and outside. His driver pulls up, and we get into his SUV. I doze off again, and he wakes me up when we get to my place.

The pizza and ice cream arrive a few minutes after we get inside my apartment. We eat, watch a movie, and when it's time for bed, I say, "I'll sleep on the couch. You take my bed."

Massimo shakes his head, claiming, "Pregnant women get beds. Now, go rest. I don't want to argue about this anymore."

Realizing there's no point in discussing this further, I begrudgingly obey.

The next day I wake up, and the sun's shining. I put on my robe and go to the kitchen. I expect Massimo to be gone. But he's still there, sitting at my table and reading the paper. He looks up, teasing, "It's about time you woke up."

I yawn. "What time is it?"

He glances at his watch. "After ten."

"Oh my gosh! I don't ever sleep this late," I claim.

"You needed it. But go get ready. We have somewhere to go," he adds.

"Where are we going?" I question.

"You'll see. Now get moving. Don't make me tell you again," he warns.

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