Page 28 of Widow's Walk

She doesn’t give up, and for the first time in my life, I do. “Jesus, alright!” I set the can back down. “Have at it. Eat yourself into a coma. Just trying to help,” I mutter. She attaches herself to it instantly. I tuck her with the food, and the bowl of water under the bench.

“Enjoy. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I pet down her bony back. “Try not to die on me, okay?”

I stash the extra food cans and bottled waters in the shrubbery before rising. Then I whip around when I feel the shift in the air. Like I’m not alone. There’s no sign of anyone, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t eyes on me. Just to be safe, I take the long way out of the maze. At a swift pace, no one would be able to keep upandremain unobscured.

I can make out the house up ahead as I near the exit. I throw a glance over my shoulder to confirm I’m not being followed when—“Sinclair.” Blackwell’s voice, though familiar, still has my heart lurching. He’s standing just outside the hedges, smooth and collected. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” I say defensively.

“Of course not,” he says dryly, unimpressed. “We’re going out tonight.”

I blink. “Out where?”

“Dinner. Then the casino. Be ready by eight.”

“Got it. I’ll see you then.”

I brush past him and head right upstairs, pretending I don’t feel him behind me, watching. As soon as the pressure of his eyes fades, the nerves begin souring my stomach. There’s an anxious twist in my gut I cannot rationalize.

Why does he affect me like this?

Yes, it’s dinner, but it’s not like a real date. It’s a staged outing. A PR campaign for our alignment. I’m just there as a prop. Not his fiancée or lover. His chess piece on display.

Still, I don’t stall. I don’t drag my feet to needle him like I usually do. I can’t sit still long enough to kill time anyway. I’m spiraling, and I fucking hate it.

I refuse to spend any special time on getting ready. I don’t fuss over my hair. I let the purple fade, and I part the platinum downthe middle, sleek and cold. But my makeup is all bite. Sharp wings, smoke-smudged lids, lips painted in a bruised wine.

And just to be petty, I wear something that is a middle finger to every mob wife aesthetic they expect of me. A relaxed fit animal print skirt starting from high up on my waist down to my calves and exposing one leg. Black leather stiletto boots come up past my knees. And over my patterned black sheer top covering my arms and up to my throat, I have a black leather top that is a cross between a corset and a moto jacket.

Before I can talk myself into changing, I grab a coat and leave the room in hopes of grabbing a drink before it’s time to leave.

My legs slightly quake as I hit the top of the stairs. I don’t want to do this. I should refuse. Cause a scene. Become insufferable so he gives up and goes alone.

No. I have never shied from anything that rattles me. Fear is a dare. And I’m the kind of girl that bares her teeth and runs headfirst into the fire.

As soon as I hit the landing, I find him coming from around the corner, head down, focused on his phone. I cross my arms, trying to remain stolid when I’m still shaking inside.

He takes notice of my punctual arrival and stops cold. His eyes rake me from head to toe, most likely inwardly insulting my appearance.

Okay, maybe I did dress forhim. For him tohateit. For him to be so vexed by my attire, he demands that I go back upstairs and change. Any second now, he’ll tell me I look like hell on heels.

In three, two…

“You’re on time,” he states blandly, pocketing his phone. The handsome devil is in one of his bespoke suits—all black, sharp, and lethal.

“I’m hungry,” I give him the lame excuse for not making him wait.

His eyes roam the length of my body again, and I don’t flinch. “Good. Shall we?”

I’m a little disappointed when he doesn’t verbalize his disdain for my outfit. Either he’s becoming more tolerant of me, or I am becoming less intolerable.

I almost laugh at that thought.

On the drive, I cross one leg over the other, letting my foot lazily sway while I pretend to be engrossed in my phone. He’s glued to his own phone, the silence thick and humming with consuming thoughts.

Usually, I thrive in silence, but tonight, it claws at me. I feel like every breath I take is rehearsed. Every inch of my posture is calculated. And I catch myself wondering if he’s stealing glances at me.

It’s not until the car slows that I look up. I see the glowing letters of the restaurant’s name.Piccionini. I know the place, and I’m even more uncomfortable since he told me we were going to dinner. It’s intimate, elegant, and romantic.

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