Deep (Pagano Family #4)(32)

“What did you just do?”

“I dealt with a personnel problem. He’s your bodyguard, Beverly, not your boyfriend.” He stepped toward her and reached his hand toward the popcorn.

She yanked the bowl out of his reach and stalked into her kitchen. Her setup in this space was smaller than his but similar—a kitchen separated from a living room by a tiered counter, the living room side at bar height, to make for a dining area. His décor was neutral and considerably darker in tone than hers. Her appliances and cabinetry were white, her walls and countertops a sort of sand color. And then there was that magenta wall. A store-bought negative space print of Audrey Hepburn had pride of place over her new, white sofa. The sofa had throw pillows on it now—orange and pink flowers. Everything about her place, from what he could see, was cheerful.

“He was invited in. You were not. And what is your f*cking fascination with boyfriends? I don’t have a boyfriend—not Chris, not Donnie, nobody. Why won’t you get that? And nobody calls me Beverly. I’m Bev.”

He knew she didn’t have a boyfriend. But she was wrong if she thought she wasn’t surrounded by men who wanted to be. Including her friend Chris. Nick had caught, more than once, the way he looked at her when she was looking elsewhere. He’d seen the near-agony on the man’s face when they’d been dancing together at Neon. Beverly had a friend. Chris was in the friend zone.

But Nick knew this was not the time to point that out. That was not insight he thought she would ever want to have, and Chris’s discontent was not his concern. Until and unless it became his concern.

“I call you Beverly. I don’t like Bev.”

She got a previously-opened bottle of white wine out of her white refrigerator and filled a glass on the counter—she didn’t offer him a drink. “Well, I do, and it’s my name. Where do you get off deciding what to call me?”

“I like the way my tongue moves around your real name. Beverly. I like the way it feels in my mouth.”

With the glass halfway to her mouth, she froze, pink rising over her cheeks. “Oh.” Despite her combative tone before, that word was barely a gasp. He waited, watching, keeping his face neutral, while she worked that out. When she spoke again, her voice was more assured but less sharp. “Why are you here?”

He wanted her company. Seeing her go back down the hall to her own apartment, this apartment, the morning before had been absurdly difficult. Seeing her go with such obvious relief had hurt his feelings. He’d stayed away the rest of Sunday, spending the day as usual, at Mass and then at Uncle Ben and Aunt Angie’s with his mother. He’d had work to do after. All of it kept him from thinking too much about the hurt he’d felt when she’d left.

But now he was here. He came around the corner and got close. She wore a long, straight, knit skirt, dark brown, and thin-strapped t-shirt in a color like the inside of a cantaloupe. White bra straps showed under the straps of her top.

Her hair, a fascinating blend of colors, obviously natural, that came to a sum of glistening reddish-brown, was loose and waved softly over her shoulders. Her blue eyes glittered with irritation and a little fear—but her wide pupils told him what he really wanted to know. She wanted him. Her chest, that beautiful chest, heaved erratically with her anxious arousal.

“How’re you feeling?”

It took her a beat to answer. Before she did, she set her glass down and took a step back. “Better. Still sore, but nothing like it was.”

“Good.” He lifted his hand to her face and brushed his thumb lightly over her scraped cheekbone. “I’m sorry you were hurt.”

She hadn’t flinched at his touch, but she did at his words. He wrinkled his brow at her.

She answered his silent question. “That’s the first time you’ve said that.”

“What?”

“That you’re sorry. I got the impression that you don’t apologize. In general.”

“In general, I don’t. In general, I don’t do things I regret.”

She laughed at that. Her laugh was wonderful, quiet and breathy, but still rich, tuneful. Nick’s balls clenched behind his already-hard cock.

“That’s funny?” He brushed her hair over her shoulder and left his hand resting there, his thumb on her pulse point. The beat against the pad of that digit was fast and shallow.

She cleared her throat. “Sort of, yeah. You must be a very careful person, then. I figure if I get through a day without having to apologize for something, then I didn’t have a very interesting day. Sometimes I just apologize on spec.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know—just in case I did something that warrants an apology.”

“That makes your apologies pretty cheap.” He traced the length of her throat with his thumb.

She was doing well to keep up her end of the conversation. “They’re always sincere, but I think an apology should be cheap. How much does it cost to be sorry if saying sorry eases somebody’s mind?”

In his world, it could cost everything. But Beverly was not of his world. He stilled his hand. “I’ve never known someone who sees the world like you do.”

“How do you think I see the world?”

“In perpetual daylight. Sunshine.”

“And how do you see the world?”