Page 51 of Ruins
“A room to paint in?” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his focus remains fixed on my lips. “Yes.”
I force myself to look away, trying to steady my thoughts. “You brought me in here to pick a studio for my art?” I muse aloud.
“I also expected you to join my meeting, so you wouldn’t be cooped up in here alone,” he replies, his voice deceptively casual, though there’s an underlying tension beneath it. “Unless you’d rather help yourself to some books,” he adds with a slight chuckle.
I try to focus on the various rooms displayed on the screen, but it’s nearly impossible with his warmth pressed against me, his scent clouding my thoughts. My fingers twitch at my sides, restless, but after a few moments, something catches my eye—a large room bathed in natural light, the windows stretching wide and tall.
“Can I see that one bigger?” I ask, pointing.
He clicks on the image, expanding it, and my breath catches at the sight.
A library.
“That’s my library,” he states nonchalantly, as if it isn’t one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
His hand leaves the mouse, settling on my lower back, fingers pressing lightly.
I lean in, captivated by the endless rows of shelves, the dark mahogany desks, the cozy lounge chairs nestled in corners. It’s everything I could dream of—warm, inviting, perfect.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
Turning toward him in excitement, I barely register how close we are until I realize our faces are mere inches apart.
The tension snaps tight.
I almost ask my question casually, but the weight of his gaze, the way his hand moves from my back to the nape of my neck, makes my voice softer. More intimate. “Can I paint in there?”
His fingers curl slightly, a slow, deliberate caress at my nape. The air between us is thick, electric.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice softer than I intended.
He studies me, his gaze piercing. He leans in, and for a brief moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My breath catches, anticipation coiling in my stomach—
The phone on his desk buzzes.
Sandra’s voice fills the room, shattering the moment. “Mr. Amato, the team is ready for you.”
Santo exhales through his nose, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he turns his chair slightly, giving me space to stand. “Would you like to come with me to my meeting?”
“Yes, I want to go with you,” I say without thinking.
The words leave me too quickly, too eagerly. Heat rushes to my face, embarrassment creeping in at the desperation laced in my tone.
Santo chuckles, the sound low and indulgent, and takes my hand. His fingers envelop mine, warm and steady, his grip firm yet gentle. It feels natural, effortless, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. I find myself drawn closer to him, caught in the quiet pull of his presence.
His fingers squeeze lightly, a silent reassurance, steadying the nervous energy thrumming beneath my skin.
He leads me through familiar hallways until we arrive at a conference room I recognize from my youth. The long table is lined with six men, their curious gazes flicking to me as we enter. Santo doesn’t release my hand until he pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling his presence beside me as he takes his own seat.
“What progress have we made?” Santo asks, his tone edged with authority.
“Still no luck opening the file, sir,” a man in wide-brimmed glasses reports. “We might get further in the upcoming weeks. Is this urgent?”
Santo’s patience thins. “As urgent as anything here. I want to know what’s being hidden as soon as possible.”
