Was I too lust-drunk to contemplate the legal ramifications? Obviously.
But I haven’t regretted the choice for a second. Not during the early hours of that morning when I lay in Raffael’s bed, tucked against his chest, the world finally sliding into alignment after years of friction and denial. And not in the weeks since, where every day has held a highlight of him, either through a shared meal, a stolen morning, an intimate phone call, or dangerously domesticated menial chores like when he shadows me while I buy groceries.
“Morning.” His lips quirk in that low-key confident way that makes my insides melt as he strolls into his living room, chest bare, sleep pants slung low on his hips.
“Morning.” I bury my face in my coffee mug and take a sip, hoping to hide my enamored grin. He’s so incredibly gorgeous I swear his parents must have sold their souls for the genetic perfection. “I need to get home and do laundry. Your bedroom is becoming a dumping ground for my dirty clothes.”
He continues toward me seated at his dining table, places a kiss to my temple, and ignores the knock at the front door that catches me off guard.
“Or I can save you the inconvenience and have your things moved here,” he murmurs against my skin, devilish and deep, as if his statement isn’t a huge change in the trajectory of our relationship.
I gulp a mouthful of coffee, the temptation of him outweighing my better judgment.
The offer should feel like a noose. Instead, a rush of joy washes through me. A giddy inevitability.
The knock sounds again. A harshrat-a-tat-tat.
“Cavallo,” a woman shouts from the hall.
Raffael groans.
I snap my gaze to the entry. “Is that Quinn?”
“Jesus Christ. Not again.” Raffael exhales like a man bracing for torture and crosses the room, yanking the front door wide. “What?—”
“Your brother is itching for an early grave.” Quinn storms in. “And if he’s not careful, his incarceration is going to become one of those padded-cell, straightjacket-type situa—” She spots me at the dining table and stops short, her frazzled irritation melting into something that tries to be amusement but doesn’t quite land. “Well, well, well. Look who got caught out in a lie about taking things slow.”
Her attention sweeps over me—my crinkled pajamas, my finger-combed hair—her conclusions unmistakably X-rated if the glint in her eye is anything to go by.
My face heats, the bite of jealousy I once felt learning about my best friend communicating with Raffael behind my back no longer an issue. Instead, warmth infuses me. A fever of happiness I should’ve shared with Quinn weeks ago.
“Wearetaking things slow.” Raffael closes the front door and returns to stand behind me. “And maintaining this pace is an ongoing exercise of restraint.”
I snort.
“If only my brother’s prison warden could stand to show the same control, instead of making house calls to vent her frustrations.” His hands settle on my shoulders, his tone turning sardonically reverent. “Despite those visits being such a fucking delight.”
“I wouldn’t have to come all this way if you answered your phone,” she argues, a glimpse of exhaustion seeping through. “I’ve called five times this morning.”
“When I’m with Isla I don’t tolerate interruptions,” he counters.
“Aww. That’s disgusting. I’m thrilled for you.” Her face deadpans. “But given Eliseo’s threat to set off the emergency sprinklers, you might want to pause the lovefest and come up with a story to explain why your brother is currently imprisoned in his penthouse for when the fire department rolls in.”
I sit straighter. “I thought he agreed to the terms of his confinement.”
“Hedid,” they both say in unison.
“But apparently there’s a caveat where he insists his big brother finally comes to visit.” Quinn crosses her arms over her chest, glowering at Raffael expectantly.
“Ignore him.” His hands slide from my shoulders, and he moves to the kitchen, posture stiff, his guard seeming to shift into place.
“That’s a little hard when some dumb fuck insisted on installing safety call buttons in his penthouse cell.”
I glance between them. “Wasn’t that your idea, Quinn?”
“Yes, Isla. Like I said—some dumb fuck.” She continues to glower at Raffael. “Your boy has been pressing the buttons on repeat like he’s ordering lap dances during happy hour.”
“Then uninstall them.” Raffael pulls a glass tumbler from an overhead cupboard.