When he spoke, his warm breath brushed my skin and I shivered.
“I’ve wanted you since the day you walked in my office,” he said. “And every day, every moment, since.” I could have sworn his lips touched my neck, and I forgot how to breathe. Then he was out the door and gone.
*
I couldn’t sleep that night. I was still upset about how dinner had gone and I tossed and turned, doubts as to whether I should continue seeing Ryker spinning in my head. Of course, he may not want to see me anymore either. It felt like one of those milestones in a relationship where we could either turn the next corner or it would go down in flames, and I didn’t know which way it was going to go.
To my surprise, I heard the faint click of the lock on my front door opening. After a moment, I heard the familiar sounds of Ryker setting his weapon, holster, and handcuffs on the kitchen counter. A thrill went through me that he’d come, but also a whisper of caution. Was this a sign? Or just a booty call?
To avoid succumbing to the latter, I scrambled out of bed, hurriedly running my fingers through my hair to straighten it. Sliding my feet into my Ugg slippers—best things ever—I ventured into the living room.
It was chilly and I shivered. The pajama shorts and tank I wore provided little warmth without a blanket over me.
Ryker was standing in the kitchen, the outline of his body dimly lit by the one light I left on over the stove. He was looking at his phone, but glanced up when I got closer. He slid the phone into his pocket as his gaze raked me from head to foot and back. A shiver danced across my skin and it wasn’t from the cold.
“I didn’t know if you were coming,” I said. “After dinner tonight, I didn’t even know if we were still dating.”
Ryker leaned back against the counter with a sigh. “I’d hoped we could discuss this later,” he said. “It’s late.”
Nausea churned in my stomach. Oh God, was he breaking up with me?
“So you thought you’d pop by for a sleepover, and then break up with me?” I asked. “I don’t think so. I’d rather we discuss it now.” No sense prolonging the inevitable. “You accused my father of being a mob boss.”
Ryker scrubbed a hand over his face, glancing away from me. I waited. That had been a pretty big accusation to level and I hadn’t taken it lightly.
“Sage, the Muccino family is huge in Chicago. I don’t have to tell you that.”
I shrugged. “My father has five brothers. They all run their own businesses, started from the ground up. They help each other out from time to time.” The list of cousins and relatives was endless on my dad’s side.
“Our organized crime division has been keeping files on them for years,” he continued. “You don’t think your father’s paid off government officials to get the kind of monopoly he has over the liquor distribution in Chicago?”
“My father is a good businessman,” I said staunchly. “And just because they have a file doesn’t mean he’s done anything wrong. Obviously, if he had, they’d have arrested him. If anything, this only proves that he’s an honest man because how could a criminal undergo such scrutiny without being arrested for something?”
I wasn’t an idiot. My father had paid an army of lawyers over the years to keep the feds off his back. It seemed if you were Italian, lived in Chicago, and ran a very profitable liquor distribution company, you must be doing something illegal.
I wanted to talk about the other thing he’d said after dinner. The whole in love part. Was that really how he felt? Or had he just said that in the heat of the moment? I was dying to ask, but didn’t want to be the one to bring it up.
“Let’s say you’re right,” Ryker said. “Let’s say your father is all aboveboard—”
“Because he is,” I interjected.
“Fine, let’s say he is. There’s still the whole part about you … your family …”
I waited as he hesitated.
“Christ, Sage,” he finally blurted. “You’re worth millions.”
“I’m not,” I corrected him. “My father is.”
“Really,” he said dryly. “And who would be your parents’ heir?”
My face heated and I was glad for the semi-darkness. “So what?” I asked, avoiding stating the obvious answer. “So what if my parents have money? What does that have to do with us? Most men like the idea of a wealthy wi—girlfriend.” I stopped myself from saying wife just in time. Yeah, really didn’t want to go there.
“Sage …” He broke off, shoving a hand through his hair and muttering, “God, how can I explain.” When he met my eyes again, he seemed determined. “I was brought up dirt poor. Most of the time we barely had enough to eat, and what we did have was provided for by food stamps. I was the kid on the free lunch program at school.”