Page 14 of Nicoli

MIRABELLA

My fists clench as I stalk toward the kitchen. “I’m so sick of his shit,” I grumble. Who the hell does he think he is? A condescending asshole, that’s who.

Half the time, he doesn’t even notice me. But when he does, he acts like he has the inherent right to tell me what I can and cannot do. His arrogance is astounding. Maddening. Always speaking to me as if I’m incapable of making my own damn decisions. God, Nicoli infuriates me. I’m ready to jump out of my skin and tear through his smug sense of superiority.

“Fuck!” I stop and place a palm on my forehead, certain my chest is about to explode. Nicoli has the natural talent to piss me off, and it’s exhausting trying to constantly brush it off.

Closing my eyes in a moment of peaceful respite, I take a deep breath and lean back against the wall. “Ouch!” I wince, something sharp pressing against my back. I try to jerk away and find my dress caught on whatever is protruding from the wall and trying to drill through my spine.

Alexius. New art. Hooks. My designer dress getting torn to shreds.

“Fuck. Really?” I glance up at the roof, directing my sarcasm to a higher power. “Are you serious?”

I try to reach behind my back and untangle the fabric stuck on what feels like a nail, but I can’t lean away from the wall far enough to get my arm in there without risking tearing my dress. “Oh, come on,” I exclaim, stomping my foot as frustration boils in my bones.

Footsteps with an unrelenting pace echo from around the corner, and relief floods me. “Thank God. I need some help over here,” I call just as Nicoli appears and comes to a screeching halt, his blue eyes wide with confusion.

This is where I’m confident the universe has a hard-on for me.

Nicoli lifts a brow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m testing these hooks to see if they’ll carry the weight of Alexius’ priceless yet heavy paintings.” Sarcasm is oozing out of my pores, and I blow a strand of blonde hair out of my face.

Nicoli shrugs and starts walking past. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Nicoli, I need help.” The words taste bitter as it burns my dignity to ash. “I’m stuck and can’t move without tearing a hole in my dress.”

“You’re stuck?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Do I want to ask?”

“No. Now, can you reach behind me and unhook me?”

Nicoli hesitates, glancing up and down the hall as if he’s waiting for help to come from either direction.

“Nicoli,” I snap.

“Tear a hole in your damn dress, then.”

“No,” I moan. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Then buy yourself a new one.”

“Nicoli, for God's sake. Just reach between my back and the wall and unhook me. It’s not rocket science.”

He’s pulling his palm down his face, his expression that of someone who was just asked to shove cocaine up his ass and smuggle it into North Korea.

“Nicoli!”

“Okay. God. Relax, woman.”

Woman. He called mewoman. And why do I find it hot as fuck?

My skin warms, and I know I’m flushed all the way from my neck to my cheeks as he moves up close, trying to see what kind of mess I managed to hang myself up on.

I try not to look at him, and while I’m desperate to control my eye movement, which is very fucking involuntary right now, I’m also hyperaware of him robbing every ounce of oxygen in a six-foot radius around us. And I’m pretty sure he grew taller in the last five seconds because he’s towering over me, heat emanating from him in waves.

---