Page 165 of Remy

“You’ll find something.” I don’t chance glancing at her again, not when her cleavage is already fucking with me from the corner of my eye.

It also hasn’t skipped my attention that she’s not wearing my ring around her neck. I know why it’s not there—wearing it visibly would inspire questions—but I don’t appreciate her taking it off.

For protective reasons… as well as possessive.

“I was wondering why Lucy insisted on packing my tux,” Carlo says. “French cuisine sounds perfect.”

“Dad, are you sure you’re up for?—”

“Fragolina, relax. I’m living my best life.”

Ollie sighs and reaches for an olive. “Of course you are.”

“In that case… ” I return my glower to the chef. “Your services shouldn’t be needed until breakfast. Take the night off.”

He inclines his head. “I’ll put the snacks I prepared for later in the fridge, then tidy up and be on my way.”

I don’t fucking care, asshole. Just leave.

“It was nice meeting you, Nathan,” Ollie offers softly. “I can’t wait for breakfast.”

Leave now, fucker, before you do it in a body bag.

The chef smirks. “I’ll make sure I have something mouthwatering prepared.”

The only thing he needs to prepare for is an early grave if he doesn’t quit looking at Ollie like she’s a fucking blow job waiting to happen.

“You’re dismissed,” I growl, instantly siphoning the companionable energy from the atmosphere.

Lucy balks.

Carlo stares at me.

And Ollie? She pops another olive in her mouth with a condescending raised brow.

I’m going to kill that fucking chef.

Lucy clears her throat. “I guess I should iron my dress for tonight.” She picks up some bruschetta and walks for the glass living room doors. “I’ll come back for more food in a minute.”

Ollie casually helps herself to another olive, her brow still raised. “You could’ve told me to pack something nice.”

I ignore her words. Her expression. That fucking bikini.

I ignore everything as she turns on her heel and saunters inside. Everything except the pathetic jealousy coursing through my veins.

“You’re attracted to my daughter,” Carlo says without preamble.

I scoff. Mainly to brush him off, but also because attraction is far too weak of a word.

I’m not surprised it’s written all over my face. “She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Is your interest merely physical?”

The question is laughable when my interest is manic on every level. There isn’t anything about Ollie that doesn’t fascinate me. But I’m sure pondering a murderer’s fetish for his daughter isn’t something Carlo needs to think about while approaching his deathbed.

“I thought so,” he murmurs.

I shoot him an inquisitive look. “I didn’t even answer your question, Pelosi.”

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