Page 38 of Broken Deal

She tip-toes to reach for two round plates from the shelf and places them on the counter. I carefully lay the frittata slices onto each plate then carry them to the small dining table tucked into the corner of her living room. As I set down the plates, she heads off to grab some utensils.

“Then yourBabequote shouldn’t count. I didn’t know you had the same annoying quirk as me,” she says as she sits, tucking both of her legs underneath her.

I gape at her, offended. “Annoying? More like fun as fuck.”

She lets out a small chuckle that doesn’t reach her eyes. “People like to often remind me that it’s one of my most annoying quirks.”

I scowl at her comment and sit. Who dares tell her she has annoying quirks? It’s hard to explain, but somehow, the thought of Sophia quoting ’90s movies and TV shows fits her perfectly in the most unexpected way. The woman is naturally funny, doesn’t take shit from anyone, and is an overall badass. People are just idiots.

I reach for her hand and interlace our fingers, and I haveto take a moment before replying, because the charged electricity I feel by simply grabbing her hand is almost too much, but also not enough at the same time. I love the sensation, and I crave more of it.

“I think it’s extremely funny and entertaining. Don’t let people get to your head.” I squeeze her hand. “Got it?”

Her eyes drop to where our hands are linked, avoiding my gaze. She bites her bottom lip, refusing to reply.

My other hand finds her chin, and I lift it, locking our gazes. “Got it?” I repeat.

“Yes,” she whispers, her blue eyes shining with a different sort of light.

Her cheeks take on a slight blush as she breaks eye contact, almost like she’s embarrassed. Which is a new look for her, because a woman like Sophia is all confidence and security. It’s endearing, and another rush of wanting to kiss her surges through me. The urge to lose myself in her plush lips and remember their taste is almost overwhelming.

I take some much-needed space from her, dropping her hand in the process, not wanting to feel her perfectly soft skin against mine any longer. This electric energy that hangs between us every time we’re near each other keeps intensifying, and I don’t know how to make it stop. If I’m being brutally honest, I don’t even think Iwantit tostop.

We look like two domestic idiots, sitting and having a simple breakfast together. I’ve never done something like this—eat with someone just because. It sounds both crazy and stupid, but it’s true. Every time I had any sort of dinner with my father, work was attached to it. And when I was home, I was always with nannies or house staff, but always ate alone. I didn’t have any friends. How could I? My father was always dragging me to his business meetings, wanting me to learn as much as possible. I couldn't spend time withfamily either. Damian was living in Chicago at the time, and I barely spoke to my other cousins from New York. It was always me and my imagination. I never noticed how weird it was until recently. I get together with the guys sometimes, but we always end up talking about business. I’ve never experienced the normal sitting down, having a normal conversation type of thing. But with Sophia, it feels strangely natural. I could get used to something like this.

Ha. Yeah. Right. Because you can do relationships. Get real.

Loving someone has never been in the cards for me. How can I do something I was never taught how to do? Between my dead mother and my father, who—let’s face it—wasn’t the most loving, I’ve never known what true love looks like. The thought should be depressing, but it isn’t. You can’t miss something you never knew in the first place. Even when the emptiness eats me a little. Even when I wonder what my life would look like if I believed or understood what love was. Would I be married by now? Maybe one or two kids? Would I evenwantkids? These are questions that haunt me, even when it makes no sense to let them get to me. They still find a way to invade my thoughts.

When she takes the first bite of the frittata, her eyes bulge in surprise. “Holy shit, Ace. This is delicious.”

“Why, thank you.” I bow my head sarcastically. “Let me get this straight, you refuse to call me Enzo, yet you created a whole other nickname for me?”

“Yup,” she replies with a shrug, taking another bite and letting out a groan of satisfaction.

“Oh, Blue. You’re…something,” I say with a soft smile as I look at her intently.

She raises her blue irises and locks them with mine, amusement flickering within them. “I must say, you’re full of surprises. Who knew Lorenzo Mancini, gambler and playerof the Chicagoland area, knows how to make a mean frittata?”

My food gets stuck in my throat at her comment, and I cough. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, yeah.” She nods animatedly, and the way she’s looking at me has me feeling like she’s about to deliver a punchline. “Haven’t you heard? If we look up the wordplayerin the dictionary, a picture of you would pop up.”

I gape at her in disbelief. “You’remean.”

She gets up and extends her arm to grab my plate, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, a strong summery scent that envelops me. Anything summer-related reminds me of her now, and with summer just starting, she’s everywhere. All I can think about lately. And boy, is that a terrifying fucking thought.

“I’m something, alright.” She gives me a playful wink before walking away with the dishes.

“Yeah. You are,” I whisper to myself.

She’s beautiful, funny, challenging, and has absolutely no filter. But most importantly, she’s true to herself. And that’s pretty damn amazing.

It took Lorenzo about an hour and a half to convince me to get on his jet. Then it took another thirty minutes for us to leave without him telling me what our destination was. How Lorenzo managed to not lose his shit while I gave him so much pushback, I’m not sure, but I’m impressed.

As I step off the jet onto the tarmac, the first thing that hits me is the warm breeze. The sun is bright and high in the sky, and I have to squint to adjust to the light. The rapid change in temperature causes goosebumps all over my body, but I welcome it. We get in the car that was waiting for us on the tarmac, and as we exit the airport, I’m greeted by the biggestBienvenidos a Panamá?1 sign ever.

“Why the hell are we in Panamá?” I ask, turning to Lorenzo.

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