Page 19 of The Casella King

“Is there anything to do in this cabin?” I question and immediately regret it.

“You could always doyour fiancé.” He smirks, and I roll my eyes, pushing past him, into the bedroom.

“Seriously, there’s no TV, nothing, and you forgot to mention there’s no reception. How will I work from here?” I cross my arms.

“You could always take a break, you know—take a walk, read a book, cook, fuck, there’s plenty of things to do.”

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I need a drink. Maybe that’ll get my mind off how mind-numbingly boring these next few days are going to be.” I walk out to the bar cart and begin pouring myself a scotch. Throwing it back, I pour another one.

“Whoa, easy. That’s a Macallan Lalique 50-Year-Old Single Malt Scotch Whiskey,” he says, like I know what the fuck that means.

I turn around to him, raising my eyebrows, pouring another shot, without breaking eye contact. He grits his teeth, watching me.

Well, if there is nothing else to do, I guess I’ll just have to entertain myself, and the look on his face right now is quite entertaining. I smile as I sip the third glass. It tastes like acid, but I’m not about to let up.

“Okay, how about we slow down on the alcohol before food.” He walks closer to me, scooping my glass in his hand, taking it from me and placing it on the fireplace mantle. “Maybe we should start trying to get to know one another, you know, the whole reason as to why we are here?”

I take a seat on the lounge, the alcohol immediately going to my head. I forgot I hadn’t really eaten much today. “Fine, I’ll go first, how many siblings do you have?”

“One, younger brother, Nico, short for Nicholas.” He leans forward, turning his body toward me slightly. “My turn, why haven’t you fucked anyone since your ex?”

Jesus. Straight to the hard-hitting questions, like I expected anything else from him.

“Do you always have such a dirty mouth?”

“You don’t know the half of it, sweetheart.” He grins.

I look around, looking for something to save me from his question. “I don’t know, I just”—I rub my hands on my thighs, feeling myself starting to sweat—“I just haven’t.”

“How did your father die?” The only reason I ask this one is because I should know, right? Just in case someone quizzes me?

“A bullet.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “In the throat.”

I look away from him, his gaze too strong. “My condolences.”

He ignores my sympathy. “Do you ever give in to what you truly want?” I feel his eyes still on me. I look at him unsure of what he means.

“What?”

“When your heart wants something, do you immediately pursue it, or do you deny yourself?” he asks, and it takes me by surprise.

“Well, sometimes I do, and other times I don’t.” I stand up. “I feel like we’re playing twenty questions, and it’s weird.” I walk over to where he placed my scotch glass and take another sip.

“How else will we get to know one another?” His eyebrows come together, watching me sip my drink.

“I don’t know. Surely we can come up with another way that doesn’t feel like an interrogation?”

He looks around the room in thought, then gets up and rummages through the console near the entry. I watch as he leans down, looking through the drawer, my eyes wandering south to the delicious curve of his toned ass. He turns to me, holding a deck of playing cards, smiling.

“Strip poker?” His teeth almost glimmer in the light as he grins, his hungry eyes waiting for my reply. Then there’s a loud knock on the door. He doesn’t even glance at it, just waiting for my response. Rolling my eyes, I open the door to find Henry, taller than the doorframe. He hands me the bag full of food and winks at me, and I swear I almost thought I saw a smile on his face as he turned around.

The smell of food makes my stomach rumble as I bring the bag over to the kitchen and begin unpacking and putting the food onto plates. I devour my food, placing the plate into the small drawer dishwasher, and picking up the rest of my drink, I begin to browse the books on the bookshelf. They all looked a little old, and tired, like they’d been read over and over. I didn’t have much time to read, unfortunately, running a business and having the burden of a drunk father, taking precedence.

“Have you read an Agatha Christie novel?” he asks as he leans on the mantel of the fireplace. I shake my head as my fingers brush the spines of the novels lined up neatly. “Her books are considered classics in the detective novel genre.”

“How ironic, a mafia king, reading a detective novel.” I try hard to hide my smile, but I fail. I throw the rest of the scotch back and feel it burn my throat as it makes its way down. Looking back at him, I notice he doesn’t have a drink in his hand. “Do you want a drink?” I ask as I walk over to the bar cart andpour myself one. The food probably didn’t help sober me up at all. I feel a strong buzz in my head as I walk over to him, holding the glass out.

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