Page 71 of Wicked Roses

I open my mouth to counter him and then release a short laugh. He’steasingme. I know, because as our gazes meet, there’s the faintest curl to the corner of his mouth. If we’d cooked dinner rolls tonight, I’d fling one at him.

“Okay, it was mutual,” I say. “But maybe we shouldn’t drudge up what happened. It was probably best it ended when it did.”

“I’m sure your father celebrated.”

“He was relieved, yes.”

Salvatore tosses his dinner napkin onto his empty plate and pierces me with another intense stare. “What about the others—your other relationships?”

“I was engaged. That didn’t work out. He broke things off pretty much out of the blue. But I’m grateful he did and didn’t wait long into our engagement... or even worse, into our marriage.”

“He was a prick.”

“You’ve never met him!” I roll my eyes and give off an incredulous laugh.

“I know he was. Probably wore monogramed pocket squares and did the Sunday crossword puzzle.”

“Yes to the Sunday crossword. No to the pocket squares. He preferred unmonogramed.”

“That’s so much better,” he says, dripping with sarcasm.

“You’re lucky you cooked a damn good steak and fed me so much wine, or I might be pissed you’re making fun of my love life. You never answered my question earlier. What about you—tell me about the exes.”

“Starts and ends with you,” he says simply. He gets up off the stool and carries our empty plates to the sink.

I slide off my stool and follow. “Wait... you expect me to believe you’ve been single for twelve years?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve been involved with other women, there have been others. No relationships.”

A tinge of curiosity flutters inside me. It shouldn’t surprise me to know Salvatore hasn’t been in any other serious relationships; he was always open about his disdain for them. Why he’d ever made an exception for me, I’m still not sure to this day.

Of coursehe’d return to his routine of being involved with women for sex only. No strings attached. Zero feelings involved.

“What? You got quiet,” he says when I don’t respond. He plucks my empty wine glass off the counter and pours some more. “I don’t have the range for a real relationship.”

“Not surprised you didn’t have any... but also, you do so have the range for a relationship. You pretend you don’t but you do.”

I turn my back on him, walking out of the kitchen. After a beat passes, he follows. The mood between us shifts into another one of our cat-and-mouse games, where I go on the run and he catches me.

He tracks me down to the large window along the back wall of the loft. I can feel his presence before he reflects in the glass, looming over me like a dark and menacing vortex about to draw me into itself.

It’s too late the second his hands cup my shoulders from behind and he eases me around. My gaze flicks up to meet the swirl of blues and greens in his. Engrossing enough for me to spend several seconds swimming in them.

Salvatore entertains himself by playing with my hair. He reaches up and twines a few of my straightened stands around his fingers. Almost as though he’s about to pull, and hard, but then he lets go. Slow and purposeful, the pads of his fingers drift along the side of my neck.

He’s standing so close, his touch so intimate, I tune into him. I’m hyperaware of every last move he makes, holding my breath in anticipation of more.

He touches the small divot at the base of my throat where my rose pendant would be. Flush against my chest. Hanging from my neck. Gone after that night.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

I swallow and then nod. “Yes. It’s almost...”

“What, Phi? Tell me.”

“It’s almost like he knew—whoever he was—that taking it away would be a punishment.”

Salvatore spends another moment staring at the hollow of my throat. His expression might as well be cut from steel, no sign of emotion anywhere on his face. But then, just when I think he won’t say anything, he does.

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