Page 51 of Ruined By the Enemy
Not when I look like I just did the walk of shame across five boroughs.
“A cab will have to do,” I mutter, defeated, straightening as best I can. The door creaks softly when I open it, and I slip out into the hallway, still balancing on my toes like a burglar sneaking out of a bad decision.
And then I freeze.
There’s a woman down the hall, arms full of freshly folded linens. Her uniform is crisp, and her expression is calm and curious as she watches me from beside a half-open guest room door.
I try to keep moving. Maybe if I act confident, I can pass as someone invited.
No such luck.
“Good morning,” she says gently, and her gaze drops to my hand clutching my purse. Then to my bare feet. My shoes dangle helplessly from my other hand.
Her eyes rise again, and she offers a warm, polite smile that does nothing to hide the knowing look in her eyes.
“Would you like some coffee before you go?”
I blink. Once. Twice. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I’ve never wanted to evaporate more. “No, thank you.” I offer a wobbly smile. “Could you…maybe… point me to the exit?”
“Sure,” she nods and I feel like I’m past the worst, then she adds, “but I’m sure we could find something…” her gaze takes in my appearance once more, “more appropriate for you to wear home?”
Her question hangs there, thick and syrupy with implication.
“Maybe I can have that coffee?” I murmur, my voice small. My pride has already packed up and left. I might as well wait for the earth to swallow me whole with caffeine in hand.
The housekeeper’s smile grows a touch softer, more motherly now. “Of course, dear. This way.”
Minutes later, I’m seated at a marble counter in a kitchen so sleek it looks like it belongs in an interior design magazine.
I cradle the mug in both hands, letting the warmth distract me from the fact that I am now fully dressed in his clothes—oversized grey sweats and a black button-down that hangs off one shoulder.
I don’t know what’s worse: that they’re so comfortable I don’t want to take them off, or that they smell like him. Like sex.
The housekeeper had returned with the borrowed clothes after she handed me the coffee, folded neatly, and a gentle, “They’re freshly laundered, but Mr. Moretti wouldn’t mind.”
Of course, he wouldn’t.
Now I sip the coffee, grateful for the silence, when I hear footsteps entering from the far hall. They’re slow, heavy, and unmistakably familiar.
I don’t even need to look to know who it is. His presence hits before his voice does, curling around the edges of the room like a current of static.
Dom.
He pauses just behind me. “I see you found the coffee.”
I lift the mug halfway to my lips, forcing a composure I don’t have. “I didn’t break anything. That counts as a win, right?”
He doesn’t reply, but his gaze rakes over my body in a way that makes me wonder if it’s the coffee that’s hot or my body.
“The bruise on your collarbone is fading,” he murmurs and reaches out, without warning, to touch it. I inhale sharply as my grip on the mug’s handle falters. “We should go to the hospital to check your temple.”
His fingers brush over the edges where the bandage meets unbruised skin, and I exhale quietly, carefully dropping the mug to the island.
Dom steps back. “It can wait until you’re done with your coffee. I’ll have my driver bring the car around. I sent him to get something.” He’s turning already, like it’s settled, but the knot in my stomach only tightens.
“Wait.” I jump up, holding my hand out. He looks over his shoulder, and I find myself hesitating, staring into his eyes. I brush my tongue over my lower lip. “I—thank you for last night,but I think I’ve got it from here. If you could tell me where I can go to pick up my car.”
