He thought of another burly security type who’d been absent recently. “Henry’s been busy with you guys too?” he asked, going for casual. He hoped the bodyguard who protected Roxanne Medina and her family had been, maybe, patrolling the mountains. Or even looking for bad guys in other countries. Anything was better than the thought of him holing up in Sofia’s room. Especially after he and Sofia had...
“Yep,” Roman said.
“Good guy?”
Grunt.
“He seeing anybody?”
Roman glanced at Aish. “Why? You wanna date him?”
Fuck it. “Is he with your sister?”
That stopped Roman’s ground-eating walk. He turned slowly on Aish and stared at him. Then he made a circle in the air with his finger. “What do you think’s gonna happen here?”
“Fuck if I know,” Aish said. “I’m pissed at her and I want her like my next breath. It’s exhausting.”
Roman looked at him incredulously. “You just gave me more reason to keep an eye on you.”
“I know,” Aish said. “But I’m done pushing her.” It was a declaration he’d already made to himself after that debacle in the cellar. “And I won’t hurt her. I just to want to help.”
He’d said it since he first arrived, “I just want to help,” but now he wasn’t sure how much he’d meant it. The first couple of weeks in the Monte, half of the time he had with her, he’d been certain that it was Sofia who had to change. And what had that given them? Two weeks of bad press and angry emotion. The only good news story had been the one Sofia orchestrated.
She’d told him repeatedly what she’d needed—space, calm, and respect of her wishes—and maybe if he’d given it to her instead of pushing for what he wanted, things wouldn’t be such a mess now.
Maybe if he’d actually listened to her, instead of insisting that he was helping, he wouldn’t have been hate-fucked in the dark by the woman of his dreams.
Roman gave him an x-raying once-over. Then he turned and kept walking. “I’m waiting out here to kick your ass if she tells me to,” he murmured as they neared a door at the end of the hall.
“I won’t—”
Roman knuckle-knocked the door and then stepped to the side of it. “There’s nothing going on with Henry.”
Aish glanced at the steely eyed soldier before he heard the click of the door. Then he turned and forgot him entirely as Sofia filled the doorway with her glow: just showered, her hair swept back and still damp, her eyes huge, her cheeks steam flushed, braless and barefoot in baggy pants and an oversized sweater.
Neck-deep in resentment, he still wanted her. Wholeheartedly.
She nodded at her brother. “Gracias, hermano. Come in, Aish.”
She held the door open for him and she smelled intoxicatingly good as he walked past her. She closed it and asked, “Can I get you a water?” looking at the minifridge instead of at him.
Feeling like he was trying to surf choppy waves, Aish shook his head.
Her suite was like his, a mix of rustic with its thick stone walls, cool terra-cotta floors, and heavy carved furniture blending with the luxury of white linens, silk embroidered pillows, and supple black leather. Her bedroom door was closed and Aish was glad; he didn’t need the distraction.
He took a seat on one end of the buttery leather sofa without being invited and she sat on the arm on the opposite side, putting her feet up on the seat. With his elbows on his knees and fingers clasped, he noticed the tip of an inked wave peeking out at his wrist. He adjusted his long-sleeve cuff to cover it.
She’d done him a favor by insisting he cover his tattoos. He’d never imagined that she wasn’t listening to the songs, hadn’t seen his tattoos, hadn’t known what they meant. He realized, only in the last few days, that part of his drive to become more famous than famous was so she would hear him, see him. So she would know.
Playing shirtless during the Super Bowl halftime had been easier than just picking up the damn phone.
Now he needed to keep his tattoos under wraps until... Well, until.
She broke up the silence with a sigh. “I’ve been searching for the words to tell you how sorry I am but I’m angry, too, so I go round and round and none of the words are right.” Her lightly accented voice was soft in the lamp-lit suite. “But I’m ashamed. I’m horrified with myself. I’m sorry I did that to you.”
Aish watched her with equal parts surprise and relief. She’d hunched over, crossed her forearms on her thighs, and she was looking down at her unpainted toes.
He wanted to cover them with his hand. “I think you just found the words,” he said.
“Just like that?” Her head came up, eyes meeting his. “I haven’t even said what I’m apologizing for.”
“For using me as your giant dildo,” he said and watched that divot appear between her brows, the skin so fine and soft there. “That was really fucking lousy, Sofia.”
He didn’t like to think about the time he’d spent in her cellar after she’d left, the lights on but all the warmth and air sucked out of the damning space. When his legs could carry him, he’d dragged himself to his room and argued with his hands and his cock, which wanted to keep the scent and tacky feel of her. Ultimately, he’d showered under blistering hot water and then called his mom. She’d filled the dead air once she realized that’s what he needed and didn’t offer to pass the phone to his dad.
Not like this, he wished he’d been strong enough to say to Sofia. Don’t take what we had and make it into this.
Her silence and distance after had been some kind of relief. She’d sent no scripts, dropped no new punishments, and had totally ignored him at workshops and meals. Devonte and Namrita had worried how the interns would perceive it—the international press
