Page 33 of Vows in Sin
I glance down at my phone for the forty-first time today. No call. No text. This girl has me acting like a damn teenager. If I had a landline, I’d pick it up and listen for the dial tone to ensure the phone was working.
The girl’s too young to even know what a phone like that looks like.
Bloody hell.
I shove my cell back into my pocket and focus on what I need to do: find the damn Morettis’ hiding spot.
I miss that sass. That spunk. And yes, the way she moans when I touch her.
And now, I know her name.
Sweet, sweet, Seraphina.
Most of all, I miss kissing my nameless tormentor—the hot desire as our mouths press together, the taste of sweet temptation, and the feel of her in my arms.
I knew she needed me, but I never stopped to ask why.
Not seeing or hearing from her now worries me. I could keep tabs on her—hell, one call to the team, and I’d know what she had for dinner. But I made myself a promise: I won’t seek her out.
I owe Tabitha that much. I’m much older and know better than to give in to desire, than to chase her knowing full well she’s young and impressionable, innocent and naive.
She shouldn’t call me.
It's for the best.
So why am I wishing she’d call?
I stand at the edge of the field, looking out over the village. Running a hand over my beard, I chuckle. I have to laugh at myself. I’m not this damn wound up about the Morrettis. They should be my sole focus, now.
Theywillbe.
I need to speak with someone first. Dame. I’ve been putting it off like I’ve been putting off telling Tabitha. I’m waiting to see if Seraphina calls me. I’ll allow myself one last sin.
Then, I’ll come clean.
Sacrifice myself at the altar.
Pay my penance.
But Dame? I’ve no idea how he’ll react. I’ve not broken any codes. But I’ve walked the line.
Finally, I force myself to seek him out. “I may have gotten involved with a girl who was looking for you.”
“What does she look like?” he asks.
Perfection. Heaven. Soft beauty laced with arsenic. “Brown curls that spring out everywhere. Impish grin. Huge brown eyes,” I say. “And her name is Seraphina.”
“We’re friends,” he says. “Nothing more. Nice girl.” He pats me on the back as he goes to walk away. “She just wasn’t my type.”
Not his type.
Right.
Not the kind of girl who sits quietly, waiting to be chosen. Not polished, shellacked, or airbrushed enough. Too loud, too many opinions. She talks with her hands and laughs with her whole body. She's sunshine with curls.
Maybe she’s no one’s type.
To me?
