Page 14 of His Queen

“Just open the fucking door, Mira.”

“No.”

“One way or the other, I’m getting inside this room.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Last time I checked, this is my bedroom.”

“It’s our bedroom.”

“Well, it was mine first.”

“What are you, twelve?”

“Mira, I swear to God, open the door, or I will break it down.”

I roll my eyes and stand, feeling the stretch in my arms as I raise them high above my head before sitting back down on the ball, making sure to keep my back straight. “I’d love to see you try,” I say with a smirk.

With one arm resting on top of the other in front of me, I carefully lift one foot off the floor, back down, then the other. But while trying to maintain balance on the ball, I realize something. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

I still and narrow my eyes, honing my senses as I try to listen for any sounds coming from the other side of the door. But it’s dead silent. And now I’m scared. One thing I’ve learned is that you never want Nicoli Del Rossa to be quiet because that usually means he’s up to something.

God, my husband is an actual child.

“Nicoli?”

Nothing.

“Are you still there?”

Silence.

“Nicoli?” I get up and move closer to the door. “You there?”

Okay. Either he’s on his way with a hammer and a wrench, or he’s phoning a locksmith. But then again, he’s good at kicking things—especially doors—so I stop short of reaching for the handle. “Nicoli? You better answer me if you’re there.”

Still nothing.

I unlock the door and turn the knob, but the second I open it just an inch, Nicoli jams his foot between the door and the frame. “You son of a—”

But there’s no use trying to push the door closed. Nicoli is already halfway inside the room.

“You are such an asshole!” I yell, stepping back.

“Be glad I didn’t break it down. Ten more seconds, I would have.”

I huff, blowing a stray hair out of my face and placing a hand on my hip. “You overstepped today, Nicoli.”

“Jean-Whatshisface can be glad he still has both his hands after touching you.”

“He was helping me with my stretches.”

“Bullshit.” He yanks off his suit jacket, tosses it on the couch, and removes the cufflinks, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves. “He was helping himself cop a feel.”

“You’re insane.”

“Isn’t Pilates supposed to help and improve cognitive function?”

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