Page 8 of Craving Chaos

“Fucking right off, sir.” I salute, happy to escape any further scrutiny, and retreat to the back office.

I’m watching feed from our multitude of security cameras when I get a text from an unknown number.

Shae, it’s Renzo. Forklift is fixed.

I stare at the screen as if glaring might force it to explain why Renzo has texted me. It’s been six days since our hot mess of a meeting at his warehouse, and I hadn’t heard anything about the matter since. I assumed Conner had handled it. Renzo didn’t even have my number. He would have had to go out of his way to get it. Why?

Me: Thought you were working with Conner on that.

Renzo: You thought wrong.

Me: Well, I’m telling you now. Get with Conner.

Renzo: Either you meet me at the warehouse tomorrow at 1 or we keep the crates. Your choice.

The fuck is he up to?

A strange thudding pounds in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s wariness or excitement, or why I’d feel either of them where Renzo Donati is concerned.

Me: You think you can keep our shit?

Renzo: Your family owes me for our part in that arrangement.

Renzo: And if your cousins ask, I’ll simply explain that you refused my one simple instruction.

Motherfucker.

It pisses me off that he has me, and he knows it. I don’t understand what he’s up to, and I like that even less. Why is he demanding to meet with me? Is he trying to intimidate me? Because hell no.

Me: No need to get your panties in a twist. I’ll be there if it’s so important to you.

Dots dance in their bubble, then disappear three separate times before a response finally comes through. God, I love that it’s so damn easy to wind up men. The smallest insinuation of emotional dysregulation and they lose their ever-loving minds.

Only, his response isn’t what I expect. He ignored my intended condescension and focused on something else entirely.

Renzo: Can’t twist what I’m not wearing.

Me: Panties?

I snicker to myself.

Renzo: Anything.

My brain glitches. Renzo is texting me naked?

My eyes squint shut. Damn my vibrant imagination—the unwanted image brands itself on the backs of my eyelids where I can’t escape it.

Me: Renzo Donati, are you sexting me?

I try my best to play things off as nonchalantly as possible.

Renzo: You’re the one who brought up panties. I was just correcting you.

Renzo: And Shae?

Me: Yeah? If the text could be audible, it would be a whisper. How did he manage to unnerve me every fucking time?

Renzo: You’d know if I was sexting because your fingers would already be buried deep in that pink pussy of yours, desperate for release.

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