Page 173 of Bona Fide

I bring them around so I can stand. “Now we’re pulling out president stops to get keys to guests’ rooms?”

“It has its perks.”

I point for the door. “Out.”

“Throw me out, Sox,” he challenges. “I won’t fight you over it.” I stride towards him, my hand landing on his bicep as I give him a shove in the direction of the only exit in this room. The arm for that said bicep wraps around my waist and drags me to hit his solid chest.

My neck cranes up to meet blue eyes underneath his hat, and God, he looks so normal. Not a man that can send a country into war or spring nukes at a push of a button. Not a dude that can spread and change the views and daily lives of a nation.

He’s pure sovereignty. A king without a crown. A god without the statue for people to bow and worship—yet.

Standing in front of me is a facade of ordinary but beneath simpers the potential to crush anything or anyone in his path.

“I like your outfit.” His other hand abrades up the silky material of my top, skimming my hip before reaching my ribcage.

My body stays put, content where it is while my brain is screaming to break free, get away, remember what he destroyed in his wake—my whole fucking life.

Nevertheless, my anatomy is on strike from my brain, basking in the heat radiating off him and sending a trail of goosebumps from my toes all the way up to the back of my neck.

“Do you know what this week is?” he asks, still looking down at me as though he hasn’t seen me in forever.

“The week that starts with a Sunday.”

He smirks. “It is. But it’s also the week that I got to feel you for the first time.”

“Feel me?”

“Fuck you,” he professes.

My hands arrive on his chest. “Not this again. You need a life.” His hand curls around one of mine on his chest and slowly pulls it away.

“I have one.”

“And so do I, one that you think needs to be dictated all the time.”

“Which is why I’m here.” His lips quirk higher. “Call Jed Hardison.”

My brows snap together. “Are you drunk?” He looms closer, forcing me to retreat deeper into the room as his cologne wafts off his clothes to fill the space between us.

“Call him.”

“For what?”

“Did you want to save Enzo or…” I grimace at his warning-promise then jostle him back again.

This time is enough. I’m so over this shit.

“Don’t come in here and—” Wade’s phone appears in his hand, and he hits a button then brings it to his ear, locking his blues to my violets.

“Is everything all set?” he asks before nodding. “Great.” He moves the mouthpiece from his lips. “Did you want to talk to him?”

“Who?”

Wade shrugs. “We’ll call him Bob.”

“What are you doing, Lockwood?” His eyes narrow as he takes another step, challenging me to keep pushing him. Quit questioning him.

Stop doubting that what he has in mind won’t happen.

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