Page 7 of Twisted Promise

“Passenger seat.” He rapped his knuckles on the window as a silent signal and a sign of impatience.

Anya hesitated momentarily before she got in. “But we’ll need to make awkward small talk.”

“Then don’t talk,” he intoned offhandedly as he shut the door and started the engine.

She mouthed something silently while he pulled away from the house, almost forgetting the camera being turned on remotely.

He let out an irked sigh.

He was fine with the silence when they made it to the closest store. He paid close attention to her mood when they parked, and there was a trivial pinch in his chest when she looked nervous yet laid back.

When he took the infuriatingly vivid green shopping basket, it wasn’t just a practical action but a subconscious move, like muscle memory kicking in.

That was when he willfully admitted just how mundanely yet intimately his body reacted to her presence. The familiarity praised his riled heartbeats with a warm crescendo.

The sweet moment was interrupted by another door’s resounding thump from behind. He looked over his shoulder with a scowl plastered on his face as one of the show’s cameramen followed them with a smartphone on a selfie stick.

For someone who despised public scrutiny, Alessio had gotten used to the cameras. Whether paparazzi in trees or fans behind walls, they were always there.

Anya was a bit uneasy, but the cameraman kept his distance, so she was able to pretend she wasn’t being filmed as she admired the massive building bristling with liveliness.

Her eyes were promptly locked onto the list of items on her phone. She zipped into the aisle farthest from the entrance and then dropped a pair of slippers in the basket along with several plain shirts that were of decent quality.

Alessio inspected the shelf beside him, reading the labels, and put a bottle of lavender bedding spray into the basket. Anya was a picky sleeper and only recognized her bed; he remembered she relied on this specific brand when traveling.

Anya was on her phone when he looked over to her, still ignoring the cameraman about two feet from them, and sheaccidentally skimmed the comments on the live video showing their backs.

502

Something is going on between them. I’m betting every penny of the $98.04 in my bank.

503

I do, too. Like, that wasn’t even bantering. It was straight-up flirting. Source: trust me.

“That was not flirting,” she mumbled, exiting the live feed with a huff.

She cast him a grumpy glare from the corner of her eye. He was tempted to shrug, but that felt like too much work, so he merely raised a brow at her.

He couldn’t control the comments. Every live feed—from the house or elsewhere—garnered an unrelenting flood of chatter. Alessio guessed the total number of comments at the house alone was well into six digits.

Anya took out her wallet from her jacket’s inner pocket at checkout, but he raised his phone to the machine and allowed the payment to go through before she could stop him.

“Free stuff,” he stated nonchalantly as he took the plastic bag off the self-checkout bagging rack.

Anya liked money, and he was positive it was why she signed up to be on the show after it started.

It suited his intentions perfectly.

Friends or lovers, he didn’t care, as long as she was more than just the memories stored on his phone and flash drive.

“Thanks?” she asked, unsure if that was appropriate as her nose wrinkled.

Alessio didn’t respond as they exited the store and placed the bags into the backseat. He closed the door just as she opened hers—an act of timing so unfortunate it almost felt personal.

An act of unwarranted vengeance.

At nine o’clock, with the stars as witnesses, the tip of his shoe caught on a slick patch of condensation, and his knee met the coldness.

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