Page 50 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

It’s different, almost like he did it deliberately to throw me off. Instead of the sandalwood and musk, it’s spruce and rum spice. It could’ve been anybody—seeing as the number of people who walk in and out of the apartment are as infrequent as the faces, but Iknowit’s Ethan.

The door closes softly, and I pause for a hair’s breadth before I resume chopping the carrots. I have to make lunch for—heaven knows how many men—and I’ve been prepping the ingredients for twenty minutes now.

“You still don’t know how to sense danger,”he whispers behind me.

Instead of the shiver, I feel something else spread through my body. It’s light and warm, almost like sunlight on a winter morning. It hits all the right places, and I look over my shoulder with a half-smile.

“Am I supposed to be worried that you’re dangerous?”

Ethan shrugs. “Maybe?”

I purse my lips. “Huh. If you say so, then maybe I suck at being observant. You want to teach me?”

He comes to stand beside me, and I see his slight nod. “No. You should keep seeing the world the way it is. You don’t want your view tainted by the unnecessary things.”

His response is laced with vagueness, but I’ve come to expect that. This is the same man who cornered me in a grocery store, kissed me without a word, then vanished for a week.

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I may never truly know Ethan Cross—only the parts he chooses to reveal.

His arm slides around my waist, the touch deceptively light, but there’s purpose in it. His fingers curl against my side, and I don’t miss the slight tremble, barely noticeable yet impossible to ignore.

“I thought about you,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet confession. “Probably more than I should have.” A beat passes before he adds, “Definitely.”

Okay. I’m caught unaware by his confession that my hold on the knife slips. He moves in to keep it from sliding down and chopping off my finger, then adds a soft “Be careful.”

Wow.

I was wrong. I assumed Ethan Cross would never let me past the surface. But he doesn’t sound like a man who makes casual admissions.

“You were gone for a week,” I say when I trust my voice not to betray the loud beating of my heart or my skittering pulse. “Why?You didn’t have to babysit Anthony anymore? Did you find your large house better than his apartment?”

“Mine,” he says. I could’ve sworn he chuckled, too, but it lasted half a second. “It’s my apartment,” Ethan clarifies when I give him a side glance. “I did put him here because I had to keep an eye on him. That’s not why I’ve been away.”

Me?

Did he decide that I was too much of a temptation and that he needed to focus on work? Did he still think I was a spy and that he had to conduct more investigation?

“I had something to attend to,” Ethan says, oblivious to my scattered thoughts. “It took far longer than I anticipated, and I still have some wrapping up to do.”

“Huh,” I mutter under my breath. It couldn’t be me, then.

The spy theory,I mean. I already told him about my parents. If he dug further, all he’d find is a short string of exes, a couple of failed gigs among good ones, and my very best friend, Danielle.

Done with the last carrot, I gently transfer it to the frying pan in preparation to stir it. I head for the chicken fillet in the bowl, picking up the knife.

“Careful,” Ethan whispers again.

“I’m not clumsy,” I say defensively.

“Oh?” he drawls. I make the mistake of glancing and he has one eyebrow arched. “The mess in my office?”

The mess? I frown, my mind racing to make sense of his accusation. Then it clicks—he’s talking about the plates.

I abandon the chicken, thrusting my hands onto my hips in full defense mode.

“Oh, absolutely not. You are not pinning that one on me. You’re the one who—” My throat tightens, betraying me at the worst possible moment. The words lodge there, refusing to come out.

Ethan’s brow arches, his smirk sharpening into something undeniably smug. A silent challenge.

---