But he wasn’t the one who’d had a gun in his face.
Dammit.
With a low growl of annoyance, I toweled off, changed into fresh clothes, and headed into the kitchen, where I convinced Greta to part with a bowl of her precious soup.
“You’ll spoil dinner,” she warned.
“It’s not for me.”
A frown pinched her lips before realization dawned, and her disapproval relaxed into a downright delighted smile.
“Ah. In that case, take as much soup as you need! Here.” She shoved a plate of sourdough bread and butter at me. “Take this too.”
“What happened to spoiling dinner?” I grumbled, but I took the damn bread.
I made it to Vivian’s door when I second-guessed my decision. Should I wake her up from her nap? Greta said she’d worked from home today and hadn’t eaten lunch, but maybe she needed the rest. Or she could’ve already woken up and was counting her diamonds or whatever the hell jewelry heiresses did in their free time.
Should I knock or leave and come back?
I didn’t get a chance to decide before Vivian decided for me.
The door swung open, revealing sleepy dark eyes that widened in panic when she saw me.
She screamed, causing me to startle and nearly drop the soup.
“Fuck!” I caught myself in the nick of time, but a few drops of hot liquid splashed over the side of the bowl and onto my arm.
“Dante. God.” Vivian pressed a palm over her heaving chest. “You scared me.”
“I was just about to knock,” I half lied.
Her attention drifted to the food in my hands. She looked adorably sleep-rumpled with her tousled hair and a pillow crease on her cheek. Even with no makeup, her skin was flawless, and the faintest scent of apples turned the edges of my mind hazy.
“You brought me food?” Her face softened in a way that worsened the haze.
“No. Yes,” I said, unable to decide whether to admit to checking up on her. I could tell her it was Greta’s idea. Bringing her chicken soup of my own accord seemed dangerously intimate, like something a real fiancé would do.
Vivian gave me a strange look.
Christ, Russo, get it together.
An hour ago, I was beating the hell out of a six-foot-two criminal. Now, I was incoherent over fucking soup and bread.
“Greta said you didn’t eat lunch. Figured you might be hungry.” I went for the vaguest answer possible.
“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful,” Vivian said, still with that soft expression doing strange things to my mind.
Her fingers brushed mine when she took the bowl and plate. A tiny current of electricity sizzled over my skin. My body tightened with the effort of containing a physical reaction—a surprised jolt, a more deliberate brush of our hands.
Vivian paused like she felt it too before hurriedly continuing, “It’s perfect timing, because I was going to grab a snack. My call with the Legacy Ball committee ran over, and I forgot to eat lunch. ”
She’d told me earlier she was hostessing this year’s ball. It was a big deal, and I couldn’t stop a glimmer of pride from sparking in my chest.
“That’s going well then.”
“As well as anything with a three-hundred-page handbook can go,” she joked.
Silence fell.
I should leave now that I’d given her her food and confirmed she was functioning just fine, but a strange tug at my chest prevented me from leaving.
I blamed the cursed haze in my mind for what I said next. “If you want company, I was planning to grab a snack too. Not hungry enough for a full dinner.”
Surprise slid across Vivian’s face, followed by a hint of pleasure. “Sure. East sitting room in five?”
I gave a curt nod.
Luckily, Greta wasn’t in the kitchen when I returned. I grabbed another bowl of soup and joined Vivian in the east sitting room.
The chicken broth was rich and hearty enough to comprise a full meal on its own. We ate in silence for a while until Vivian spoke again.
“How’s Luca? After…you know.”
“He’s fine. He’s been through worse.” Though I should check on him again just in case. “He once got mugged by a monkey in Bali. Almost died trying to get his phone back.”
Vivian spluttered out a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“It’s true.” My mouth curved, both at the memory of my brother’s indignation over the crime and at her smile. “Obviously, he got out okay, but some of those temple monkeys are ruthless.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for our trip.”
We were leaving for Bali in three weeks to see my parents for Thanksgiving. I was already dreading it, but I pushed that aside for now.
“And you?” I dropped all pretense and fixed my gaze on Vivian. “How are you doing?”
Vivian’s amusement disappeared in the wake of my question.
The air shifted and condensed, squeezing out the earlier lightheartedness.
“I’m okay,” she said quietly. “I’m having some trouble sleeping, hence the naps, but it’s more shock than anything. I wasn’t hurt. I’ll get over it.”
Maybe she was right. She was much calmer now than the first night, but a niggling thread of concern still unraveled in my stomach.
“If you want to talk to someone, the company has people on hand,” I said gruffly. Our contracted therapists were some of the top practitioners in the city. “Just let me know.”
“Thank you.” Her smile returned, softer this time. “For the other night, and for this.” She nodded at the half-empty bowls between us.
“You’re welcome,” I said stiffly, unsure how to handle whatever the hell was happening here.
I had no frame of reference for the strange fog clouding my brain, or the twinge in my chest when I looked at her.
It wasn’t wrath, like with Brax.
It wasn’t hatred, like with Francis.
It wasn’t lust or dislike or any of the other emotions that had shaped my previous interactions with Vivian.
I didn’t know what it was, but it unsettled the hell out of me.
CHAPTER 17
Dante & Vivian
DANTE
Vivian did end up speaking to one of our therapists after the Lohman & Sons incident. She never discussed her sessions, but by the time we arrived in Bali, her sleep had improved and she was mostly back to her normal witty, sarcastic self.
I told myself my relief had nothing to do with her personally and that I was simply glad she was in the right headspace to meet my parents.
“Are you sure your parents live here?” Vivian stared at the villa in front of us.
Hand-hewn sculptures dotted the lawn in a riot of primary colors, and an overabundance of wind chimes tinkled by the front door. Giant sunflowers sprouted up the walls in splashes of yellow and green paint.
It looked like a cross between a luxury villa and a daycare center.
“Yes.” The place had Janis Russo written all over it. The front door flew open, revealing a mass of curly brown hair and a floor-length caftan. “Prepare yourself.”
“Darling!” my mother cried. “Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you! My baby boy!” She rushed toward us and embraced me in a cloud of patchouli. “Have you lost weight? Are you eating enough? Sleeping enough? Having sex enough?”