Page 131 of Reckless Vow

“Yes, but the rooms are only long-term rentals. No tourists, thank God.”

I snort. “I thought the hospitality industry was your bread and butter.”

“Entertainment is my bread and butter. I hate fucking tourists.”

I snicker, elbowing him.

We enter the lobby, where the floor is a polished expanse of marble, reflecting the soft, ambient light from exquisite crystal chandeliers above us.

A large, intricately designed mural on the wall across from the entrance captures the essence of the city.

Every detail speaks of refined elegance, full of grandeur. Even the air is subtly scented with what I guess is a bespoke fragrance. Soft, classical music plays unobtrusively in the background, adding to the serene ambience.

Home.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cassinetti, welcome to Emporio Suites.” A man in a sharp suit approaches. “Here are your key cards. My name is Pietro and I’m here to assist you in whatever way you need. Let me give you a tour of our—”

“We’re exhausted after the flight, Pietro, so we’ll order room service and rest.” Baldo gives the man a hundred-dollar bill. I guess we’re now tipping for not getting the service.

“Of course, of course, please let me show you to your private elevator. We’ll have your luggage there in a few minutes.”

The moment the elevator door closes, silence and tension descend on us. We should talk about the way we’re going to handle the family, but I’m not eager, and I guess Baldo isn’t either.

A petty part of me regrets Paris having the baby early, interrupting our honeymoon. A fake honeymoon that helped us grow closer. But definitely not close enough yet.

It’s like we didn’t get fully grounded in our relationship, and now we have to face yet another challenge.

“Private elevator?” I break the silence.

“I booked us into a penthouse suite. It’s large enough so we can each have some privacy.”

I turn to him. “Privacy?”

What the hell? When did we take several steps back after we’d just made forward progress?

“It has an office where you can write.” He keeps looking at the numbers above the doors.

I hate the unspoken challenge hanging above us. But it’s like neither of us knows how we want to handle it, so while we’re figuring it out, we can’t talk about it.

But shouldn’t a couple face challenges together? Discuss them? I’m worried I made Baldo talk so much in the last few days that he might be out of words for years to come.

“An office, I see. It almost sounded like we’re getting separate bedrooms.”

The door opens into a large living space, but I don’t get to see much of it because Baldo grabs my wrists and yanks me to him, twisting my arm behind me.

Not hurting me, but locking me in. He wraps the other hand around my neck, forcing me to look at him. “Only one bedroom. You have no choice in that,” he says darkly, and I shiver.

There is a retort on my tongue, but it dies as I feel the bulge in his pants.

We pant and stare at each other, our lust igniting the air around us.

We shouldn’t be fucking instead of talking. That’s not a solution to our problem.

That thought is a fleeting frivolity.

Our relationship is like the tide. Retreating and advancing. Let’s hope we don’t get tumbled by an unexpected big wave.

God, but I want this man.

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