Both their gazes came to me.

Hers widened in surprise, then glinted with a challenge. She turned back to him. “Anyway, I just wanted to return your watch and say I had a great time last night.”

Christian was, indeed, holding his watch. The one he took off every night and set on my dresser.

He nodded curtly, his eyes still on me.

“Hope we can do it again soon.” She purred it while looking at me with a cat-got-the-cream smile. I hated her.

She drifted down the hall, and, feeling slightly nauseous, I turned to lock my door.

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Relief settled in my chest.

And that annoyed me.

“Didn’t ask,” I said.

“I didn’t even touch her.”

“Don’t care.”

“The clasp on my watch broke. I left it on the table at dinner.”

“Riveting.”

I was flustered, my hand was sweaty, and I couldn’t get the stupid key to turn in the lock.

“Gianna—”

I spun around with my bag of bread. “You called me flighty!”

“You practically let him fuck you up against the bar,” he growled.

“Oh, please. He barely touched me.” Was I really expecting a cold-blooded killer to be rational? “I don’t have to explain myself to you. This isn’t a relationship. Just sex, remember?”

A retort burned brightly in his eyes, but he shook his head and held it in. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to feed the pigeons and reflect on my life choices like a true New Yorker.” I turned back around, and each second I struggled with this lock, the frustration beneath my skin inflated and inflated, until it felt like I would burst.

“I didn’t get home until after three last night. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“No.” His voice was vehement. “This isn’t over.”

I’d thought he had wanted to end this, and now, the deepness and intensity of his voice warmed my heart with relief and elation. But there wasn’t enough room for all these overwhelming feelings, and they all exploded like a tripwire.

I faced him, leaving my key stuck in the lock. “Listen, Christian. All of this”—I gestured between us—“is too much drama for me. I swear, I’ve gained at least five pounds from the stress! And I am not giving up chocolate, dammit!”

His jaw tightened as he watched an angry tear run down my cheek. “There won’t be any more drama, Gianna. This is exclusive now.”

It wasn’t lost on me that I’d just told him I was ending this relationship and he’d countered with making it more serious.

I blinked. “Exclusive, just sex?”

He shook his head, something sardonic passing through his eyes. “Whatever you want it to be, malyshka.”

I swallowed. “You’re leaving any day now, Christian. Let’s just call a spade a spade. This isn’t going to last forever.”

“I’m moving back to New York.”

My heart dropped. “What? Why?”

His gaze touched mine as he said, “I missed the city.”

Oh.

“You called me flighty,” I breathed.

“I meant perfect.”

I stood there with a bag of bread in my hand, my key stuck halfway in my lock, while this man I used to despise ran a thumb across my cheek.

What an odd sequence of events.

But I had to say, something about it felt undeniably right.

He fed the pigeons with me. Well, he didn’t actually pull off a piece of bread and toss it—menial labor, I guessed—but he did sit on the bench beside me. I’d insisted I didn’t need an escort to the park, but was cut off by, “Knowing you, you’ll get arrested. I’m coming,” and that had been the end of that.

I joked about taking a selfie and wondering if he’d even show up in the picture. He told me he showed up just fine while fucking me in front of the bathroom mirror.

I asked him what moya zvezdochka meant. He said it meant, my little star.

He asked me what the scar on my chin was from. I told him a lack of self-control and the chickenpox.

I asked him if he kissed all his neighbors or just me. He looked me in the eye and said, “You’re the only woman I’ve ever kissed, malyshka.”

I stopped asking questions after that.

Because everything inside me had tilted on its axis.

We walked back to the building while I teased him about wearing a designer suit to the park. He got a good jab in about my galaxy leggings, telling me he must have missed hearing about the Star Wars convention coming to town.

He was cool, icy control.

But something burned hot beneath the surface.

Something shrouded by ice for so long.

I wanted to watch it melt. To unravel him until I understood every layer.

I knew it was dangerous.

I even knew I wouldn’t win.

But sometimes, even the best gambler doesn’t know when to quit.

“I’M DONE. SERGEI IS YOUR problem now.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to fuck his daughter.” My gaze coasted over the bed. Wild, dark hair, smooth olive skin, and twisted sheets. Gianna slept on her stomach, both hands beneath her pillow. My chest felt heavy while I looked at her soft expression. I wanted to capture that look in a bottle and take it with me everywhere. Maybe then, I’d feel like I had some control over it.

“The model?” Ronan let out a half laugh. “Only you would consider that a problem. Let me guess, she saw your pretty face and begged her father to make you hers.”

I didn’t believe that was the case. Aleksandra was cold and calculating. I often got the feeling I was nothing but a step in her overall plan. And sometimes, that plan felt desperate. “I think she believes I’m the lesser of two evils.”

“Hate to see who the other man is,” he muttered. “If you’re turning down models over there, I’d love to take a look at whoever’s in your bed.”

“She’s Italian,” I said, like that explained everything.

“Ah, passionate women. Is it serious?”

A sardonic breath escaped me. “She bet twenty grand I’d marry another woman.” I’d run into a little birdie named Val who’d whispered that to me yesterday morning on the street. Well, she’d tiptoed around the topic, but I’d put two and fucking two together. Another reason I’d lost my cool when I found Gianna laughing with some Abelli who had his hand in her hair. How could I say every strand was mine any clearer than washing it every goddamn night?

“I like her already.” He chuckled. “Why does it sound like you want to drag this little Italian down the aisle?”

Because it felt like if I didn’t have my possession of her in writing, she’d slip from my fingers again. I was all in, had known this obsession would only escalate once I’d had her body, her attention, and her smiles all to myself. I’d warned her years ago when she’d pressed her lips to mine. I’d let her do it, because I’d thought it would turn me off and then I could finally put this infatuation with her behind me. I hated kissing, especially the sounds of it from the next room—and what it had usually meant for me—since I could remember. But when she’d kissed me, it hadn’t disgusted me in the least. Her lips were soft. Her tongue was hot and wet. And her sigh gave me chills. Violent lust had roared through my blood, dulling my vision. That unsettled me, and then pissed me off enough to step away.