Page 10 of Mine to Tease

“I guess I didn’t think about the repercussions. I knew the boss had approved it, and I knew several others who were joining. I suppose I thought we all would.” I remain silent. There’s no point in having this discussion with him. He’s made his choice, and now he has to live with it. Maybe that’s why I haven’t responded to him in all this time. His is a decision that can’t be undone. “It’s not so bad, you know? The pay is similar to what I made before, as is the work. There are a few differences, obviously. I feel more like an outsider than an associate or soldier.”

“Famiglia,” I say.

“Yeah, that part of it is gone.”

“I know. For us too,” I say, referring to the men of B&B. Though, hopefully, with time, that will change. “But that’s because the decision to abolish only considered the business, not the sense of unity we all had.”

“Well, given the betrayal the boss faced, maybe he didn’t feel so unified with his people.” Hmm, I never thought of it like that.

“Well, enough small talk. I reached out because I’m spending more time here at the shop now and I’m not super keen on tatting the Irish. If there’s anything heavy coming up that may make me want to close up, I’d appreciate the warning.”

Angelo nods. “It’s not for a while now, but there is something coming up at the end of the summer. I’m not exactly privy to all the details, but we’re already being briefed on attendees of note, most of which are from up north. It’s a long list. And with this much time to prepare, I can only assume it’s something important, since I know that’s what you’re really asking.”

I tilt my head to the side in acknowledgment. He’s not wrong.

“Hmm, the end of the summer would be roughly six months after the Cullen/Cross acquisition. Maybe a State of the Union of sorts. Either way, it’s a show of power. If things are going smoothly, he can use it to display his strength to the people back home. If things are still as tense as they are now, he’ll use the heavy hitters from Boston to affirm his position here.”

Angelo shrugs. “Sounds about right.”

Even though I’m against this transition of power, I pray it’s the first option. The last thing I need is a war on the very streets Anastasia walks. Unlike the Amatos, whose estate is outside of New Orleans, Aidan’s residence is here, not too terribly far from where we stand now. And even if things are running smoothly by the time of the event, the heart of this city isn’t big enough to handle that amount of mob presence without Anastasia somehow being caught up in the middle of it. I should’ve been notified of this by Aidan himself. I guess it’s still early. He could’ve had it on his agenda. Regardless, I’ll have to speak with him about getting a copy of the guest list and do my own research on the attendees. No one in Boston should know that Anastasia is in New Orleans, but if that changes, I’ll need to be ready and aware of potential incoming threats. Even though I want her gone, it doesn’t mean I want to fail in protecting her.

It’s then that a squeak from above draws my and Angelo’s attention. Sure enough, Anastasia appears from her shop at the top of the stairs, covered in paint and sweat. Her red-orange locks are tied in a messy bun on top of her head while a few loose strands dangle around her face. The sight of her makes my mouth water, and yet I shove my attraction to her to the side and return my attention to Angelo.

“That’s a pretty one there,” he says, nodding in Ana’s direction.

“Mm-hmm, you should leave.” Angelo is taken aback by the sternness in my voice and in my expression. Yet, he does not question me. He knows better. Perhaps that’s the real reason he joined Aidan. He’s a follower, and every follower needs a leader. He gives me one final nod and Anastasia one last glance. Instinctively, I step into his line of sight and remove my hands from my pockets. My movements tell him all he needs to know and that is that she is off-limits.

By the time Anastasia reaches me, Angelo is backing out of the parking lot. Even in tennis shoes, she’s slow as fuck coming down the stairs. I can’t even count the number of times she’s almost fallen coming down in her heels with Brinkley. Though today, her clumsiness and mild fear of heights actually paid off.

“Painted yourself into a corner, didn’t you?” I ask as she brushes past me. We haven’t spoken since the altercation this morning. I’m not sure what to expect when she spins around to face me, sleepiness clouding her light eyes. God, she’s beautiful. “Yeah, I could’ve told you that was going to happen two hours ago.” And I would’ve. But after what happened this morning, I thought it best to keep my distance.

“Of course you could’ve. Because you’re Damon Dupont, knower of all things.” Her light-hearted tone and sarcasm brings a small smile to my face. I’m pleased to find she still has some of her happy glow from when she cut the wires on my sound system and that she doesn’t appear to hold what happened afterward against me. “You know, I’m exhausted and disgusting, but today was nice. All the paint work is finished. And for once, there was no screaming filling every second of every hour.”

“Well, you finally learned how to shut up. I applaud your growth.” I give her a round of applause, and she rolls her eyes in response.

“You know I meant the music. But if you don’t give me a reason to yell at you, I won’t.”

“But it’s so much fun though.” At that, I lean against the railing as her lips draw into a coy smirk. Oh, yeah, she’s toast. I don’t think she’s ever smiled at me before. Well, this morning, but that was more her being proud of herself for taking down the evil speaker. But this, this might be a smile for me.

“Mm-hmm, good night, Damon,” she says then. Her purse slung over her shoulder, she takes off into the night. Little does she know, I’ll be twenty yards behind her the whole way home. I just have to give her a head start first.

“Good night, Anastasia. Get home safe,” I call after her.

“Don’t pretend you care.” Without a glance back, she raises her hand in the air and flips me off just before rounding the gate onto the street. I let out a deep chuckle.

“There she is.”

11

After taking a shower to wash off the day, I sink into my clawfoot tub and bury myself beneath the bubbles of my caramel-and-pistachio-scented wash. I hold my breath as the warm water sloshes around me and through my hair. Peace at last. With Brinkley occupied by one of his favorite treats in the living room, I have a few moments to myself. I lift my head above the water and wipe the suds from my face. As I open my eyes, the candle on my vanity fills the small room with a soft glow. The flickering flame casts shadows against the green-and-white-floral-printed wallpaper. It’s the perfect place to unwind and process the day that was a blur. Well, truthfully, there’s only one moment that occupies my thoughts. I just spent the rest of the day in a daze, doing my best to think of anything else.

The way Damon touched me, spanked me—I can’t even think the word without blushing—it did something to me, something I don’t quite understand. He’s an asshole, a tall, tattooed, arrogant asshole who has done nothing but make my life miserable since the day we met. But I… Is it wrong to say I wasn’t mad at his touch? Of course, I screamed for him to stop and put me down. It’s all I knew how to do. It’s the only thing that made sense because his hands on my body and the way they made me feel most certainly did not. I shake my head and take a deep breath.

Leaning my neck against the edge of the tub, I close my eyes, our encounter replaying over and over again behind my eyelids. I should be angry or offended, even he said so in so many words. He said what happened was inappropriate and he apologized, and he doesn’t apologize for anything. So what does it say about me that I liked it? Is that it? Did I like it?

I’ve known since the day we met that Damon Dupont is different from any man I’ve ever known. I’m used to men dressed in suits who handle me as if they are wearing white gloves. But not Damon. He’s harsh, rough, and sarcastic. He’s petty, selfish, and almost a bigger pain in my ass than my brother and that’s saying something. But unlike my brother or any other man I’ve known, he…he treats me like I’m a normal person. He may call me princess, but he doesn’t treat me like one, and even though I complain about it sometimes, I like it. Fighting with him and him not backing down makes me feel normal. Being man-handled by him makes me feel normal. It also makes me feel other things too.

His touch and the way he looks at me makes me feel like a woman when all I’ve ever been treated like is a child. Even going back to the first day we met, the way his hands slid up my skirt… My heart skipped a beat and every nerve in my body was on high alert. I chalked it up to fear. But today, I had the same rush of…adrenaline, arousal—I’m not sure which word is more appropriate—and yet I wasn’t afraid of him. Why am I not afraid of him? I should be. I barely know the guy despite seeing him nearly every day since I moved here.

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