The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(77)

Maybe it was for selfish reasons, but my heart still decided to grow twice its size. Guilt deflated it just as fast. I seemed to bring this man more trouble than I was worth. The numbers I’d copied onto paper sat in the bottom of my duffel bag upstairs and heavily on my conscience. “Maybe I should stay at home until the marriage,” I offered.

“This is your home.”

“You know what—”

“No.”

Okay.

Not one for negotiating, it seemed.

He grabbed two plates from the cupboard. “Thought you ran every morning.”

I almost didn’t hear him over how shirtless he was.

I pursed my lips. “I’ve decided it doesn’t suit me.”

He gave me a dark look. “If you decide it does suit you, use the treadmill in the spare room upstairs. You can’t run the streets like you used to.”

My smile was sweet. “You have a way of making me feel so very liberated.”

He wasn’t amused. “What are your plans for dance?”

I hadn’t signed up for another class since the recital and I didn’t think I was going to. Although, now I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get out of the house any other way.

“I haven’t decided.”

He filled two plates while I poured a cup of coffee. This man had given me an orgasm and made me breakfast. The former I had only hoped for, the latter I hadn’t imagined. I was beginning to wonder what he wanted with me. I would be a poor excuse of a wife.

He leaned against the counter, giving me all of his autocratic attention. “If you decide to go back, we’ll have to find you a new studio.”

I paused. “Why?”

“I don’t trust your papà’s streets.”

My eyes narrowed.

He noticed and returned the look. “You’re awfully loyal to the wrong people.” Annoyance coated his voice.

“You mean my family? Those people?” I raised a brow. “There’s nothing wrong with my papà’s streets.”

The unimpressed expression he gave me said driveby loud and clear.

I had nothing substantial to respond with, so I reflected. “Maybe I don’t trust your streets.”

“You won’t be an Abelli for much longer. If you’re going to dance or whatever else it is you do, you’re doing it on my streets.” He added with a dark tone, “And forget sucking anyone’s life away.”

A shiver went through me as I realized I would be Elena Russo in a short amount of time. I forced a sigh to hide my unsettlement.

“You’re dreadfully totalitarian today.”

“Just shy of psychotic, then?” His eyes sparked. “Guess I’d better up my game.”

As we stared at each other, three feet apart, something heavy flowed into the kitchen. A languid, hot, and suggestive air. My heart thumped the heavy beats of a drum. He stood there, half-naked, so much man. And I knew that if I remained silent, something was going to happen. Everything was going to change. Just before eight a.m. on a Sunday. Unease, anticipation, and a sliver of panic flooded me.

I knew something about the next step would break my heart.

“Please do,” I breathed. “So I know what to expect.” The words cut through the thick haze, clearing the air.

He watched me for another second. Shook his head. And then pushed off the counter.

“Eat your breakfast. We’re leaving in twenty.”

“Where are we going?”

He grabbed a magazine off the island and dropped it on the counter in front of me. The advertisement said Show and Shine Car Show.

What on earth did you wear to a car show?





“Fashion fades, only style remains the same.”

—Coco Chanel





WITH MUCH REGRET, I REALIZED that Nico was a morning person.

While I needed a good hour or two to drink my coffee and prepare to even get ready for the day, he made breakfast, dressed in jeans and that white t-shirt, and was ready to go with the sun.

Flaw found. Right next to the question of his mental status. Though, I believed the issues went hand in hand.

“You look nice,” he told me as we pulled out of the drive.

Like an idiot, I flushed all the way to my hairline.

He laughed quietly and then turned up Last Resort by Papa Roach until it was all I could hear.

Throughout the day, You look nice was a deep, worn-out recording in the back of my mind. It was such a simple observation, and for that reason warmth filled my chest. I was used to compliments, and maybe that sounded shallow, as though I felt I was deserving of them. But I didn’t believe I was, nor did I want them. In my life, the beautiful girls ended up like Gianna: hiding the misery in their eyes with dilated pupils.

I was observant as a child. I wanted to analyze the world and decipher its meaning, but what I found was myself as a little girl standing in front of a mirror where a loveless, empty life stared back.

The truth was, I was a liar. I’d always been a romantic. So deep a romantic that the thought of not finding my own love story felt like I once again stood in that vacant parking lot with nothing but snow and the whistle of cold wind.

I wasn’t the smartest girl in the world to blush from his compliment right after I’d used his girlfriend’s—lover’s, whoever she was—iron to curl my hair and pull it into a ponytail. Nevertheless, with a violence I hadn’t felt before, I only hoped the other woman wasn’t Gianna. She was my opposite—carefree and uninhibited—while I was so . . . pale in comparison. And with a triviality I doubted we shared, I was concerned about having to wear the same heels two days in a row because they were the only ones that paired well with my summer dress.