Leaving me standing there trying to figure out what the fuck I just did and why calling it a mistake feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
13
EMMA
Leo is avoiding me, and it’s pissing me off more than anything he’s done in the last three weeks.
Which is saying something, considering you know, he kidnapped me.
But at least when he kidnapped me, he was present. He looked me in the eye and owned what he was doing. This? This disappearing act he’s pulling now? This is cowardice, plain and simple.
It’s been two days since we had sex in his office. Two days since he called it a mistake and refused to talk to me about it. Two days of him making himself scarce, of me wandering this massive house looking for him only to find empty rooms and closed doors.
A mistake.
The word makes me want to throw something every time I think about it, which is constantly because I can’t seem to think about anything else.
That wasn’t a fuckingmistake.
The way he kissed me wasn’t a mistake. The way he touched me and looked at me while he was inside me, the way he said my name like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside him—none of that was a mistake. You don’t kiss someone like that by accident and you certainly don’t touch someone like that if you regret it.
But Leo’s too much of a fucking coward to admit it, apparently.
I’ve tried to find him. I’ve knocked on his locked office door. I’ve checked the library, the gym, even that smaller office where we—whereithappened. Nothing. He’s like a ghost in his own house, and I’m starting to think he’s doing it on purpose.
Fucker.
This morning I finally break down and ask Rosa, the housekeeper.
“Rosa,” I say, trying to sound casual as she’s clearing my breakfast dishes. “Have you seen Mr. Santoro?”
Rosa’s face goes blank, which tells me she knows exactly what I’m asking and why. “Mr. Santoro has been taking meetings in the city,” she says diplomatically. “He’s been very busy with business matters.”
Meetings. In the city. Riiight.
“When did he leave?” I can hear the edge in my voice.
“Early this morning,” Rosa replies, her eyes sympathetic. “But I believe he’ll return this evening.”
I nod and thank her, waiting until she leaves before I let myself be angry. He left. He fuckingleftthe house rather than face meand have an adult conversation about what happened between us.
Goddamn that fucking asshole.
Well, two can play this game. If Leo Santoro wants to avoid me, fine. But when he comes back, we’re having this conversation whether he wants to or not.
By the third day, I’m ready to scream.
I’m sitting in the garden, the same spot where Leo and I used to have our morning coffee before shit hit the fan. There’s a book in my lap—some novel I grabbed from the library—but I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes. I keep reading the same paragraph over and over, the words not penetrating because all I can think about is Leo.
The way he felt pressed against me on that desk. The weight of him, the heat of his skin, the way his muscles moved under my hands when I touched him. The sounds he made—these low groans and gasps that went straight through me and made me desperate for more.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And then he called it a mistake.
My hands clench around the book hard enough that the spine cracks. I force myself to relax, and take a deep breath. I try to focus on the words on the page even though they might as well be gibberish.
It’s a beautiful day. Warm but not hot, with a light breeze that carries the scent of the roses planted along the garden walls. Birds are singing somewhere in the trees. The sun is bright but not harsh. It’s the kind of day that should be peaceful and calming.