Sinners Anonymous : Chapter 16

BY THE TIME I slide into the sports car on the front drive, I’ve managed to convince myself I imagined the entire exchange. It doesn’t matter that my hip burns like I’ve been branded with a hot iron, or that I can’t think about anything except for the pulse ticking in his jaw. No, Angelo Visconti would never get himself worked up over a girl like me. At the very most, I annoy him. At the very least, he doesn’t think of me at all.

I’m staring out the windshield when the door swings open and makes me jump.

Propping his arm against the roof, Angelo leans in and pins me with an annoyed stare. See, annoyed, Rory. You’re an irritating little girl to him.

“I don’t think you can handle something so big.”

I blink. “Huh?”

He jerks his head toward the dash, and that’s when I realize I’m sitting behind the steering wheel.

“Oh, uh…” I glance around, confused. “I—”

“It’s a British car.” He pushes himself off the door frame and steps aside. “Out.”

I scoot past him, round the car, and reluctantly get into the passenger seat. As I fumble with the safety belt, he stares at me impatiently, drumming a steady rhythm on the wheel. At the sound of the click, I meet his gaze and he cocks a brow.

“Good?”

No. “Yes.”

He peels out of the driveway toward the gravel lane, heat blistering off him. There might as well be a warning sign above his head that flashes “Do not talk to me” in neon lights. But the tension is tangible, and if I sit in silence, rubbing my sweaty palms against my leggings for any longer, I’ll go insane.

“This is the third car I’ve seen you in. Why do you have so many cars?”

“Same reason you can’t keep your sticky fingers off the family jewels, Magpie.” He slows to meet the iron gates, resuming the impatient tapping as he waits for them to open. “I like the thrill.”

“I don’t steal for the thrill,” I snap.

“Ha.”

My cheeks grow hot. “It’s true.”

“What do you do it for, then?” he asks in a way that suggests he’s not interested in the answer. “You’re marrying a very rich man, Aurora. You don’t need the money.”

I stop rubbing my hands up and down my thighs and curl them into fists in my lap instead. “I’m not marrying your uncle for the money,” I hiss. Slamming back on the headrest, I close my eyes and grit my teeth. Christ.

But if Angelo notices my annoyance is starting to level with his own, he doesn’t say it. “Then why the fuck are you marrying him then?” he growls back.

I pop a lid open. Raise a brow. Jesus, there was so much venom in that retort that he’s practically spitting fire. From the corner of my eye, I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs. “Is it ‘cause you like getting your pussy pounded by dirty old men?”

What the hell is his problem? I’m about to ask him, but something else slips through my lips instead.

“You sound jealous.”

A beat passes. The silence echoes loudly off the ceiling and makes my bones cringe.

Then he laughs. The type of laugh that reveals too many of his pearly white teeth. It sounds so easy, so care-free, that I immediately feel stupid for daring to read between the lines every time I’m forced to share the same air as him.

I’m an idiot if I thought he was jealous. If I thought he actually wanted to kiss me.

There’s a sudden itch under my skin: a familiar one. It makes me want to do something spiteful and revengeful to him, like scrape the alloys of his fancy car, or, you know, lace his stupid cigarettes with cyanide.

Okay, maybe not that, but the urge to be bad tingles inside me, and I feel the same frustration I woke up with. I can’t do anything awful, because now I have no way to confess anymore.

Instead, I lean against the window, the early-morning condensation cooling my forehead, and I close my eyes.

Angelo manages to halve the journey to Devil’s Dip by driving like a psycho, and in less than thirty minutes, we’re pulling up beside the church. I gaze at the phone box wistfully, wishing I could dive in and dial the number, even if it’s just to hear the familiar tone of the robotic answering machine message. Anger licks at the walls of my stomach, but at the same time, the phone box serves as a reminder that I can’t be too nasty to Angelo. Just because he hasn’t listened to my sins, it doesn’t mean that he can’t. I’m sure just tapping a few buttons on his cell phone sitting in the center console is all it’d take.

He kills the engine and reclines the chair. “You’ve got an hour.”

Without another word, I hop out of the car and stride down the road, refusing to look back.

What is with that guy? He blows hot and cold like a broken heater. One minute he’s teaching me to smoke in a dark walkway, the next he’s back to calling me a gold-digger and a thief.

Whatever. As the pavement morphs into a carpet of gold and red maple leaves under my hiking boots, I brush Angelo’s comments off my shoulders. Stepping into the forest is like entering a different world. My world, and every time I’m in it, I force myself to forget everything that exists outside of it.

As I head further into the woods, the noise from the road disappears behind me. Instead, fallen leaves crunch underfoot, melting into mush when the branches of maple and ash trees grow thicker above my head. They let enough light seep through to guide my way, but it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t, because I know the forest better than I know my own body.

At the start of the hemlock trees, I take a sharp left, veering off the trail and into the thick of the forest. I jump over the small stream my father and I would play “Pooh Sticks” on when I was little, and brush my fingers over the trunk of the lone old oak that sits in the middle of an empty clearing. Mom used to read Enid Blighton’s The Faraway Tree as a bedtime story, and she’d tell me it was based on this oak tree. I’d stand under it for hours, squinting up at the topmost branches through my binoculars to see if I could spot the magical lands up there.

When the brush starts to thin, I slow down. I pull my cell out of my hoodie and fire off a text to one of the three pre-programmed numbers in the phone book:

I’m here.

The reply comes back almost immediately.

We’re in the bird blind.

Nerves flutter in my stomach, just like they always do before I see my father, because there’s always a chance that today’s the day he’s…different.

I step out onto the bank and round the lake to get to the wooden pier, then walk down it toward the small hut right at the tip. When I’m a few feet away, I twist the ring off my finger and slip it into my pocket.

The breeze carries Melanie’s soft voice out of the hut and down the pier. “Your daughter’s here, Chester. Are you ready to see her?”

No response. No response is never good.

My heart drops a few inches in my chest. I pick up the pace, coming to a stop outside the entryway and rap, tap, tap on the wooden wall.

“Hi, Dad!” I chime with a smile so big it makes my cheeks ache. And then I wait.

He’s hunched over, peering out the window, with a pair of binoculars pressed against his eyes. He doesn’t move at the sound of my voice. I wait a little longer, my pulse quickening. Melanie flashes me a small smile, then her eyes dart toward my father, too.

“Chester? Rory’s here.”

He sighs, then drops his binoculars so they hang by the cord against his chest.

“For flamingo’s sake, Mel. You scared off the belted kingfisher. I heard you the first time.”

Relief escapes my lungs, slumping my body over. Then I break into a smile—a real one—and step into the hut to throw my arms around my father.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent of soap and Old Spice. “I know how much you love a kingfisher.”

He pats my back, his chest vibrating against me as he chuckles. “We interrupted his breakfast, I suppose. He flies down to the lake this early every morning to munch on the tadpoles.” When he pulls away, he adds, “Good to see you, Rory-bear.”

My heart swells, and I have to turn away in case the prickling sensation behind my eyes turns into anything more.

Chester Carter. If you say that name to anyone from Devil’s Dip, their face will stretch into a fond smile. Everyone knows him as the forest ranger, but younger locals also know him as “Bird Man” because he used to go into schools up and down the coast and teach kids all about the birds that inhabit the area. Despite having retired both jobs a few years ago, he still wears his uniform every day. Under his quilted jacket, his gray shirt hangs a little looser than it used to, and I’ve had to punch a new hole in his belt to hold up his black slacks, but he still very much looks the part.

“You missed it. I saw a blue heron yesterday,” he says proudly, gazing out the window across the lake. “Remember the last time we saw one of them? It was with your mom.”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, swallowing the lump in my throat. Then I slide my arm into his and guide him back out onto the pier. “Perfect day to take the boat out, don’t you think?”

He pats my hand and chuckles. “Sure, sure. I could do with the exercise. Mel?” He cranes his neck to find her. “Would you like to come out on the boat with us?”

“Mel’s fine right here,” I say, before she can answer. I don’t look over at her. Although she and her team of nurses take care of my father well, they’ve been hired by Alberto. I don’t know if I can trust her, or if she’s another Greta and reports everything I say or do back to him. That’s why I always insist that we go out on the boat—away from prying eyes and ears.

She hovers awkwardly on the dock as I help my father into the boat and settled him on the bench opposite me. He waves and smiles at her as I push off, using the oars to steer us into the middle of the lake.

“Lovely day for it,” he muses, squinting up to the gray sky. “Not like last week, when it was pissing down with rain and you made me come out here anyway.” He shoots me a mischievous look and we both laugh.

“You love the rain.”

“No, I just love spending time with you,” he says softly, reaching over and squeezing my hand. When he lets go, I realize he’s slipped a peppermint humbug into my palm. “So tell me, Rory-bear, how’s school going?”

I breathe in slowly, trying not to let my smile falter. Telling him I finally accepted my place at the Northwestern Aviation Academy a few months ago was the easiest excuse as to why I couldn’t live here anymore. Of course, I hate lying to my father; it makes me sick to my stomach. But it’s a hell of a lot easier than admitting the truth.

“It’s going good,” I say breezily, popping the hard candy into my mouth. “Everything’s good. So—tell me more about the blue heron you saw yesterday.”

“It’s very good of them, letting you leave twice a week to come see me,” he says, ignoring my attempt at changing the subject. “Very flexible for such a prestigious school. Have you flown on your own yet?” The lines around his eyes deepen. “Oh, Rory. Your mom would be so proud of you.”

His words weigh on my chest like a ton of bricks, making it hard to breathe. Mom wouldn’t be proud of me for so many reasons. Although she was always bitter that my father got to teach me so many skills, there’s so much she taught me too. Like, not to lie—especially to family—and the only man worth marrying is the one you love.

I’ve let her down on all accounts.

Time flies in a whirlwind of bitter nostalgia and memories that make my heart ache. When my father’s teeth start chattering, I glance down at the time on my cell and sigh. “We better get you back, Dad.”

I row back to the dock, throwing the rope to Mel so she can help tie us up.

My father stops at the end of the pier and rubs his hands together. “Come on then, my love, let’s get back to the cabin for a hot tea. You must be freezing without a proper jacket.”

I grind to a halt. Goose. What I’d give to go back to the cabin with my father right now. To sit in front of the living room fire with a tea and a tray of cookies, listening to his stories.

Our eyes lock. His warm and expectant, mine threatening to leak. “I can’t,” I whisper.

His bushy brows knit together. “No? You have to go already?” He glances at his watch. “But it’s not even lunchtime.”

My stomach twists in knots, and this time, the lump in my throat is too big.

“Rory?” He takes a step toward me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong, my love?”

“I—”

“She has a very big exam on Monday,” Mel interrupts, stepping between us and gently touching my father’s back. “She needs to go and study. Isn’t that right, Rory?”

Eyes fluttering, I nod. “Sorry, dad.” My apology is loaded with so much more than just this little white lie. “Maybe next time.”

Another lie. I won’t go to the cabin next time, either. Because what we have out here doesn’t exist in there.

I say the cheeriest goodbye I can muster and with the ghost of his kiss against my cheek, hurry back into the thick of the woods before he can see me cry. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I haven’t cried since my mom died, and I don’t plan on starting again now.

The forest floor leads into gravel again, signaling that I’ve made it back to the main road. Squinting in the sudden sunlight, I look up and see Angelo leaning against the hood of his car, taking a phone call. His eyes follow me as I make my way toward him, and when I’m close enough to hear his conversation, he abruptly hangs up.

He slips his cell in his breast pocket and drops his gaze to my feet. “You’re not getting in my car with those on.”

I look down at my boots, caked in mud. “I’ll walk then.”

As I turn on my heel in the direction of Devil’s Cove, his hand grips my wrist. “Not a chance,” he growls. Steeling his lips into a thin line, he presses a button on his car keys and the trunk door lifts up. “Sit.”

I’m too emotionally drained to argue, so I perch on the edge of the trunk. Angelo stands in front of me. Muttering darkly under his breath, he hitches his slacks and sinks to one knee. Then, without warning, he grips my thigh.

Holy crow. Every muscle in my body tenses. I don’t know what I was expecting when he demanded I get in his trunk, but it wasn’t that. I steal a glance down at his hand. It’s hot and heavy, burning through the thin fabric of my leggings. And if he moved just half an inch higher…

My head swims. Instead of letting my thoughts go there, I focus on his shoulder as he rips off my boot with his other hand. He pauses and sits back on his haunches. Amusement makes his lips twitch.

“What?” I snap.

But then I follow his eye line to my socks. They are gray, with little orange pumpkins on them. Immediately my cheeks start to burn. “It’s nearly Halloween,” I mutter. “They’re festive.”

“Festive,” he huffs, running the back of his hand over his mouth to hide his smile.“Cute.”

Cute. For some reason, that word stings. I’d rather be annoying than be cute. Being cute puts me in a different box altogether, one a man like Angelo Visconti wouldn’t bother to open.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Stop it, Rory. I’d already overstepped the mark today with my little stunt in the sea.

I bet the women he dates back in England look like supermodels. I bet they are super successful—lawyers, doctors, accountants—and they wear heels all the time and not just because they’re forced to. I bet they never wear fluffy stocks. Only garters and sexy stockings.

Envy prickles under my skin as I glare at the top of Angelo’s head. He places his hand on my other thigh, higher this time, and removes my other boot. When he stands to his full height again, he peers down at dirt on his knees in disgust.

“This is why you don’t live in shitholes like this,” he grunts, bending over to dust himself off. “It’s messy.”

“You grew up here too,” I shoot back. “What the hell did you do when you were a kid?”

His expression sours, a sneer forming on his cupid’s bow. “Counted the days until I could get the fuck out.”

“Figures.”

“You never wanted to leave?”

I let out a huff of air, turning my attention to the sky. Just then, a plane flies over the cliffs in the distance. Before Alberto took away my cell, I had an app that let me track the fight path of any plane that flew near me, and I always loved checking it. This one is probably going down to Central America; it’s heading that direction.

“Of course. But not because it’s messy. I love all the nature in Devil’s Dip.” I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and add, “It’s the people who make me want to leave.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “People like me and my family.”

“Did you go to the Devil’s Coast Academy?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, then. People like you and your family.”

His gaze narrows. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Like he wants to ask a question but decides I’m not worth it.

To be fair, I don’t know why I brought up the academy at all. My past is none of his business.

“Let’s go,” I mutter. I go to hop off the edge of the trunk, but realize I’ll be stepping on dirt, which I’ll then tread into Angelo’s precious car. And then his whole display of yanking off my muddy boots would have been all for nothing. He comes to the same conclusion, because he turns his attention to my sock-clad feet then dips his head in the trunk.

Without warning, he slips one arm around my waist, the other around the back of my knees, and lifts me up in the air. Oh, flamingo. Suddenly, I feel drunk, being this close to him. My cheek grazes against the stubble on his neck, and I fight the urge to nuzzle into it, to breathe in his warm scent of aftershave and danger.

He’s holding me like I weigh less than a feather, and when he drops me into the passenger seat all too soon, he does so surprisingly gently.

I try to catch my breath as he rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat. He peels off without another word, and because my temples are still thumping wildly, it takes me a few minutes to realize he hasn’t turned off to take the coastal highway back to Devil’s Cove. Instead, we’re heading down to the main town of Devil’s Dip.

“Um, where are we going?” No answer. “Hello?”

“How old are you, Aurora?”

I swallow. “Twenty-one.”

His jaw locks. “Twenty-one. Christ.”

“Your point being?” I snap back, my face growing hot.

He chews on the inside of his lip as he pulls out onto Main street. The car rattles and rocks over the cobbled road.

“I want you to think about the kids in your class at school. The years above you and the years below you too. Know any man around here that has a scar on his cheek?”

“What? Why?”

“Shut up and answer my question.”

The venom in tone pins me to the seat. I blink, then shake my head. “A lot of people around here have scars on their face. It’s a port town—everyone has manual jobs. That, plus the forest…everyone’s a little scuffed up.”

“And anyone who’s a complete cunt?” I recoil at the sound of that word. He glances sideways and smirks. “I mean, anyone who’s a complete…” He waves a hand around. “Canada goose?”

“I would have gone with “cuckoo” myself.”

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

I huff a wayward curl out my face, my head pounding. “Jeez. Okay, let’s see…well, there’s always Ryder Sloane. He has a scar. Or is it a burn mark? Anyway, there’s something on his face. He was a total jerk in school. Just got out of prison, too.”

He cocks his head. “I’m listening.”

“Um. It was an acid attack on his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, I mean. She left him; he got angry and followed her home from the bar one night.” I rub the base of my throat, thinking about poor Nicole. Nobody’s seen her in more than a year. Some people say she only goes out at night because her face is so messed up. “He got four years in prison.”

Angelo nods, absorbing my rambling. “Okay. Ryder Sloane. Any idea where he lives?”

“No. But I know he works at his dad’s bike shop.”

“Where?”

I crane my neck and glance out the rear window. “We’ve just passed it, actually.”

The speed with which he spins the car around throws me against the window. And then when I realize what he’s doing, my blood runs cold. “Angelo—”

“Stay in the car.”

My heart is beating a mile a minute, but all I can do is gawp as he swings the car onto the sidewalk outside the bike shop, almost crashing into a mailbox.

As he unclicks his seat belt and lunges for the door, my hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of his suit jacket. He stops in his tracks. His eyes skid down to my fist and then they harden, like he can’t believe I have the nerve to touch him.

But he doesn’t bark, nor does he bite. Instead, he does something so small and stupid that it has no right to snatch the oxygen from my lungs.

He puts his hand over mine and lifts it to his face. Grazes his lips over it. “Stay in the car, Aurora,” he murmurs into my knuckles, making every nerve ending in my body buzz.

Winded, I fall back and watch helplessly as he slams the door and strides into the bike shop. Through the window, I see Ryder step out from behind the cash desk to greet him.

What the hell are you doing, Angelo?

Even as he takes the three steps toward Ryder, I still don’t know. They exchange a few words, then Ryder’s eyes shoot up. Before he can open his mouth again, Angelo grips his jaw, using it to slam him into the shop window.

Oh my goose. Blood rings in my ears, making the low chatter of the radio sound like it’s in a different vehicle altogether. Even though Ryder’s back is now facing me, I can see how scared he is. His arms flail next to him, and when he drags his palm against the glass, it leaves a smear of sweat.

But I’m barely looking at Ryder, because I can’t take my eyes off of Angelo. I thought I knew what it felt like to bear the brunt of his glare, but boy, was I wrong. The hard lines of his face are sharper than a blade, and his lips curl over his teeth with every venomous word he spits out. I should alert someone. Hell, if I had any sense, maybe I’d even call the police. But it’s like passing an accident on the freeway—morbid curiosity makes it impossible to look away. And then, as Angelo rolls up his sleeves to reveal his thick, tanned forearms, that feeling morphs into something hotter.

The pulse between my legs flutters. My nipples tighten.

I’ve never craved Angelo Visconti more than I do right now.

Christ, Rory. I’m burning up like I have a fever, suddenly wearing too many items of clothing even for a late Fall day. Before I start salivating like a rabid dog, I close my eyes and let out a hiss of air in an attempt to claw back some sort of composure.

And that’s when I hear the crash.

My lids pop open in time to see Ryder’s body flying through the window, glass exploding out onto the sidewalk. I lurch forward, then freeze with my hand hovering over the door handle. But then Angelo’s body blocks my view out of the window as he ducks into the car.

As cool as a cucumber, he clicks on his seat belt, starts the car, and peels out, hand resting on the gearshift.

My jaw swings open. “What the hell was that about?”

“Wrong person.” His eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. “Any other suggestions?”

Even if my brain functioned well enough to think, there’s no chance in hell I’d give Angelo Visconti another name. He knows so, too, because without a word, he takes the turning off to the coastal highway and heads toward Devil’s Cove.

My heart thumps wildly against my rib cage, like it wants out of this car as much as I do. But I’m still so damn hot. So…turned on. I find myself squirming against the leather seat, my clit begging for any type of friction.

Jesus.

I slump against the window, but this time, the cold glass does nothing to dial back my temperature. Instead, I watch the ocean pass by in a blur of blue and gray and try to not to moan every time the side of Angelo’s hand brushes my thigh when he switches gear.

It makes sense to me now, why they call him Vicious Visconti. It’s not a singular act of ruthlessness from his previous life, like sleeping with Dante’s prom date, or shooting his driver in the knee because he took the wrong turn. No. It’s a personality trait. It’s how he can flick it on and off like a light switch. How he thought nothing of shooting Max dead over a presumption, or shoving Ryder through a shop window over little more than a loose description, then going back to normal like nothing happened.

He’s a cold-blooded killer.

By the time the iron gates to the Visconti mansion open, I already have my seat belt off, and I’ll jump and roll out of this darn car if I have to. Angelo slows to a stop on the circular drive and kills the engine.

“I’d say thank you for the ride home but—”

His hand clamping my thigh ends my sentence like a full stop. I hold my breath and peer down at his hand through my lashes. It’s higher than it was when I was sitting in the trunk. So high, the back of his pinky is grazing the seam where my mound meets my leg.

I swallow. Let out a staggered sigh.

He stares ahead, regarding the house with indifference through the windshield. “You know the drill.”

“I—”

“A sin,” he rasps. “Tell me a sin.”

“Uh, okay.” I lick my lips. “Greta is horrible to me. So, when she does my hair, I use a dress pin to scratch the face of her watch.”

He remains still. “Tell me a real one.”

I blink. “That was a real one.”

A gasp escapes me as he squeezes my thigh, hard. Holy crow. I hate how my mind is so far in the gutter that I wonder what it’d feel like if he squeezed even higher up. I curl my fingers over the curve of the seat to stop myself from pushing against him, and concentrate on the house ahead.

“Give me a better one, Aurora,” he growls.

“I…” I can’t concentrate with your hand there. “I, um. I didn’t just steal Vittoria’s necklace. I stole Tor’s cufflinks, Leonardo’s Nintendo Switch, Dante’s—”

Another squeeze. It sparks up to my pussy, making it pulsate. This time, the anticipation is too much, and I can’t help but throw my head back onto the seat and moan. “Stop, please.”

“Not until you give me a real sin.”

I glance up at him, and even from his side profile, I can tell he’s wearing an expression darker than thunder. “Like what?”

“You know what.”

My chest hitches. He knows what he wants me to say. What he wants to hear me confess. Has he listened to my calls? I dismiss the idea immediately; I’d be dead if he had. My head thumps with a million sins he might be interested in, but as my breathing gets more and more ragged, I can’t pin one down.

Behind my fluttering lashes, I see the front door open and Alberto darkens the doorway. He squints toward the car, then starts descending the steps.

“Angelo—”

He tightens his grip. Moves his pinky up a millimeter. “A sin. Now.”

Holy crow. Alberto is crossing the drive toward us and Angelo’s hand is practically on my pussy. “I don’t know. I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do.”

“Please,” I whisper, my gaze frantically watching Alberto’s own. He’s just feet from the car now. “Let me go.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m not giving the option, Aurora.”

“No—”

“Now.”

Alberto is passing the front tires.

“This morning, in the sea. I was fingering myself thinking about you.”

It tumbles from my lips thick and fast, sucking out all the oxygen in the tiny space between us. Angelo turns his head and stares at me. The tiniest flicker of something passes through his gaze. Shock, maybe. Anger? I don’t know and I don’t have time to decipher it, because Alberto’s stooping to peer through the window.

Gasping, I slap Angelo’s hand away, and thankfully, he doesn’t take any more convincing. He moves it a mere few inches, so it’s resting easily on the center console.

Rap, tap, tap. Alberto’s ring-clad fist thumps on the window.

Angelo’s jaw ticks in annoyance, then he begrudgingly rolls down the window.

“There you two are.” Alberto pauses. Shifts his gaze between the two of us. “Everything okay?”

“All good, Uncle Al,” Angelo drawls, emotionless.

“Good, good. Was my fiancee useful to you today?”

“Very useful.” His gaze flickers to mine. “In fact, she gave me some good information that I can use.”

“Great. Are you coming in for a drink?”

“Can’t. I have shit to do.”

“Oh, all right. Well—” he raps his knuckle against the roof again “—I’ll see you next week, kiddo.”

He walks back to the house, and panic rises in my chest again. I have to get out of this darn car. Away from Angelo, away from my god-awful confession lingering between us. My fingers trip up over the door handle, but eventually I tug it open and slam the door shut behind me. I don’t care that I’m only in my fluffy Halloween socks.

His gaze scorches my back.

“Aurora.” I come to a reluctant stop and tilt my head to the sky.

“I don’t care what Alberto says. Wear your hair curly.”