Page 6 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

I should care.

But I don't.

I look over at where Roisin is emerging from the sea, like some kind of goddess. I’ve tucked myself back onto our blanket, the cold Irish ocean seeping into my bones.

My entire body heats, however, when I observe Roisin coming out of the sea.

She's fucking stunning.

I shouldn't be thinking that about her. She's practically my babysitter, after all.

But fuck.

I do anyway.

She's all muscle, with surprising curves that make my mouth salivate, and there's power in her tiny frame that I know too well. The memory of her taking me down while we were sparring one day, her legs wrapped tightly around my head, makes me hard so fast I have to adjust myself.

Her challenge turns me on.

Because so far, she's put up a good fight in all of our little mock battles...

And it feels so fucking good for me to win them anyway.

"You're going to catch your death of cold," I say to her.

I sound like a fucking nonna, but I can’t help it. I don’t know what to say to her half the time, and now that I can see the smooth expanse of her bare skin?

It’s a miracle I managed any words at all.

Roisin tilts her head back and laughs, droplets cascading down her neck, glowing in the rare sunshine that's blessing us on the beach today. Largely, Ireland is fucking miserably cold and wet.

So when the sun came out today and she told me we should go to the beach, I didn't argue.

Like some kind of fey creature, she hops over the large, smooth rocks to come back to our spot. She stands over me, and I manage to dodge a stream of cold water as she wrings her hair out. In the water, it's less of a sunny strawberry blonde, and more burnished gold.

I need to stop fucking thinking about her like this.

"Big baby," Roisin laughs at me.

I roll my eyes. "Roisin..."

"I told you. Call me Ro."

I shake my head. "That's a nickname."

"And?"

"People who are close have nicknames. Family. Friends."

Roisin looks at me, and I regret my words immediately because some of the joy has faded. "And we're not friends, are we, American?"

I hate how she calls me that.

And I never want it to change.

"No," I say firmly. "We're not friends."

I don't know how to describe what we are. On paper, she's the agent in charge of keeping me hidden until I need to testify.

---