Page 62 of Made for Saints

The silence stretched on, broken only by the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of fabric as she shifted in her seat. I could feel her beside me, every movement, every breath, like a live wire pressed against my skin.

She was still fidgeting with the water bottle, twisting the cap on and off, her fingers trembling slightly.

“Stop fidgeting,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

She stilled immediately, her gaze snapping to mine. For a moment, I thought she might argue, but then she turned back to the window, her shoulders tense.

Good.

Better to keep her on edge. Better to remind her who was in control.

When we finally pulled up to the venue for Adrianna’s bridal shower, I killed the engine and leaned back in my seat, watching as she gathered her things. Her dress—a pale blue satin that clung to her in all the right places—shifted with her movements, the fabric catching the light and making her look like something out of a dream.

Not the kind of dream you tell people about, though. The kind you keep to yourself. The kind that leaves you waking upin a sweat, your chest tight and your hands clenched in the sheets.

“You look good,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

She froze, her hand hovering over the door handle, and turned to look at me, her eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

I shrugged, keeping my tone casual even as my pulse quickened. “I said you look good. Even if it’s not a slip dress.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned away, pushing the door open and stepping out without another word.

I smirked, leaning forward to rest my elbow on the steering wheel as I watched her walk away. The dress swayed with every step, the hem brushing just above her knees, and I couldn’t help but imagine what it would look like crumpled on the floor of my bedroom.

Before she reached the entrance, I leaned on the horn, the sharp blast cutting through the quiet street.

She jumped, spinning around to glare at me, her cheeks burning red.

I rolled down the window, keeping my expression neutral even as satisfaction curled through me. “Be ready for four,” I called out, my voice carrying easily across the distance. “Five hours should be enough for...chick stuff, right?”

"I'm surprised you're not insisting to come in."

"You're a bad girl, you can handle it." I smirked.

Her glare deepened, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched inside, her head held high and her shoulders squared.

But not before I caught the faintest hint of a blush creeping up her neck.

I chuckled to myself, rolling the window back up and pulling away from the curb. The satisfaction humming in my chest was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Lunch with Luca was at one of our usual spots—a quiet, upscale Italian place tucked away in a corner of the city that most people didn’t even know existed. The kind of place wherethe waitstaff knew your name, your order, and exactly how much privacy you wanted.

Luca was already waiting when I arrived, a glass of red wine in his hand and a smirk on his face that told me he was in one of his moods.

“Late,” he said as I slid into the seat across from him.

“Busy,” I countered, signaling for a glass of wine.

His smirk widened, and he leaned back in his chair, studying me with the kind of scrutiny that only a brother could get away with. “Busy with Emilia, I take it?”

I didn’t bother denying it. Luca always had a way of knowing things he shouldn’t.

“She had an appointment,” I said, keeping my tone even. “I drove her.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” I said sharply, my jaw tightening.

---