Page 50 of The Duplicity of Thieves

I’ve laughed with Vivian a million times, but I have never descended into a fit of laughter quite like this. I’ve always been afraid to. I can’t catch my breath, and I’m doubled over the table trying to drag oxygen into my lungs. Thunder rumbles, shaking the mugs hanging on the wall. Aedon takes his cup and slides it over to me.

“Here, love.” He’s called me that twice now, and I want to melt at the way he says it, but I also want to punch him because, again, it makes me melt.

“There’s a free shower outside if you’re interested.” I take a sip savoring it.

“I’ve always preferred showering naked, but I like to try everything once.” He winks.

“Looks like our date is over,” I muse.

He peels the shirt away from his muscled torso. “I’m starting to think that spill was purposeful.”

“I’ll leave it open to interpretation,” I parrot his earlier art comment.

“Clever, but our date isn’t over.”

“Says who?” I challenge him.

“Me. Come on. Let’s take a walk.” He stands. A bored barista comes over with a rag and gives us a dirty look before she starts wiping up the mess.

“In the rain?”

“Are you afraid of getting wet?”

Oh, I’m definitely wet. I bite my bottom lip. “I’ll be soaked.”

“Ugh,” the barista grunts from the floor and begins mumbling to herself.

Aedon hums in his chest and takes my hand, leading me outside. The rain is coming down in a torrential downpour. It only takes seconds for it to plaster my hair on my face and make my clothes heavy.

“I should go home,” I shout over the white noise.

“I live near here. Come with me. We can dry off. Once the rain stops the date can be over,” he replies. His lashes are coated with droplets of water. His wet hair is clumped in thick locks, sending rivulets of water down his face. It’s sort of a question, but there’s a demand behind it.

“Sounds like you’re trying to get me in bed.”

“In the bed, on the patio, or even the kitchen counter. Whatever suits you.” He shrugs as if he isn’t about to drown in this storm. “Or nowhere at all.”

“Rain stops, date over.” I confirm. He takes my hand, and we walk along the street with no shield from mother nature. It doesn’t take long before we come up to a tall fancy building. A man in a dark green suit with brass buttons dotting both sides of his lapel opens the door with an umbrella extended out to us. This rich asshole lives in a fancy building with a fucking doorman.

That’s what I try to focus on instead of becoming dizzy with his proximity. The scent of leather and amber mixed with rain wafts around me, trying to hypnotize me. My mouth waters at the thought of his taste, honey and bourbon.

“Welcome back, sir,” the doorman says cheerily. He doesn’t even acknowledge that we’re dripping onto the floor, creating puddles.

“Thank you, Samuel,” Aedon says, briskly walking us to the elevator.

Samuel watches us with the same morbid curiosity of the woman from The Alibi. The place is huge with high ceilings and ornate gold trim. The floors are white marble, and the air smells of lemons. The place is clean and expensive. The water dripping from us makes a smacking noise on the floor with each drop. Aedon jabs the button for the elevator and turns to me.

“This is the first time you’ve ever held your tongue,” he says.

I purse my lips. “There’s a first for everything.”

The elevator dings and we step inside. It’s covered with decorative white panels. He waves something over a keypad, and presses a button to the top floor. I still don’t speak, unsure of where to begin. We ascend the floors quickly, and the doors slide open to a foyer so magnificent that I almost don’t step off. I feel so out of my league. I’m used to fields and small dilapidated buildings. Not this.

Paintings that look priceless line the walls. A small table has a vase of fresh flowers, and the place smells just like him. I follow him out into an elegant living room lined with panes of glass overlooking the city. Circling a black brick fireplace is a black crushed velvet couch accompanied by a black armchair embroidered with gold paisley.

The place screams edgy womanizer. The walls are white with black accents. Someone designed this place. Probably a previous girlfriend. Jealousy ripples through me, and I shove it away. We aren’t even a thing. I berate this man every chance I get before I run. There’s no reason I should care who designed his stupid penthouse, but I can’t help myself.

“Interesting decor,” I state.

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