Page 49 of Dirty Damage

The man who has been there with me through everything, as good as family. Better than, actually, when I compare him to my actual blood.

I just don’t know how to distill any of that into one single title.

“Actually, don’t answer that.” She spins around to turn off the stove. “Dinner is almost ready, and I don’t want to learn about your entourage of muscled men until after I’ve had some sustenance.”

I watch her move around my kitchen like she owns the place, fetching plates and silverware.

One second, she’s burning with embarrassment.

The next, she’s ordering me around like she’s the one in charge.

She isn’t, but I like the confidence.

Hell, maybe I’d let her use the handcuffs and blindfold on me.

With that thought, I beeline for an ice-cold shower, keeping my hands far from the throbbing between my legs. I dress in dark slacks and a white t-shirt that shows off what the gym has given me.

I head down the hall to find the dining room…

Empty.

Where the hell did she get to now?

“Hey!”

I turn and find her waving to me from the balcony. The stone table behind her is dressed with a white tablecloth I didn’t know I owned and a candelabra.

Music in the house, meals on the balcony.

What next? Moonlit sex while we gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes?

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

“You want some wine?” she asks as I join her outside. “The recipe said rosé pairs well with this pasta.”

I hold out a glass to her. “What kind of pasta?”

“It’s a red bell pepper sauce. The grocery store around the corner was running a special, but they were still twice as expensive asany pepper I’ve ever seen. Uri loaded my phone with a credit card, so I tapped to pay. Is that okay?”

I nod as she dishes pasta onto my plate, and I think I could get used to this.

Maybe having a wife won’t be so bad after all.

“So—” She starts, sitting down to her own, smaller plate of pasta. “—you were going to tell me about this Artem dude who apparently has access to this condo.”

Her eyes pass over my exposed arms. I don’t point out that it’s rude of her to sit there, drowning in cotton when I’ve brought out the big guns for this dinner.

“Artem is my right-hand man. We’ve known each other since we were sixteen years old. He knows me better than I know myself sometimes.”

“He’s your bestie?”

“I’m a grown man,” I growl. “I don’t have abestie.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sorry. I’m sure the Beast only has sidekicks and lackeys.”

“And enemies.”

She laughs, but I was only half-joking. “You haven’t tried your pasta.”

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