I received the tiniest bit of amusement from him as he slid his phone in his pocket. “Let’s go, before it gets hot.”
We ran the entirety of the gated community. I waved to Tim Fultz as we passed, who was getting into his car for work at the law firm. The rest of the properties were quiet, the people who could afford them spending half the year on vacation, or still in their beds with a small hangover and an expensive prostitute. I noticed Ryan mowing one of their lawns and a bitter feeling ran through me.
By ten o’clock, as we were within sight of the house, the sun beat down harder than ever. Sweat made a lazy path down my back, and my lungs burned. Jumping into the pool sounded better than any idea I’d ever had.
“I’ll race you home,” I panted.
“No.” Dominic maintained a steady pace, but his shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Come on, chicken.”
“If I were five that might have worked.”
“I’ll tell Papà where your stash of pot is.”
He blew out a sarcastic breath, shook his head, and then sprinted.
“Hey!”
With burning thighs, I picked up the pace until I was side-by-side with him. I shoved his shoulder for cheating, managing to push him over a step. Though, I soon realized he wouldn’t return the gesture, considering Papà stood on the front porch with an unfamiliar man, their eyes on us.
Nicolas’s car sat in the driveway, and when he stepped his big body out of it my heartbeat faltered, which created a domino effect of flutters in my chest.
Dominic slowed, apparently thinking it wasn’t appropriate to race his cousin in company. I met him stride for stride until my feet touched our front lawn.
Dominic put his hands on the back of his head and sucked in deep breaths. “Son of a bitch,” he complained, panting.
“Too much smoking,” I told him, choking on air because I was trying to inhale it so fast.
He raised a brow, in a way of asking me what my excuse was.
“Mamma’s cookies,” I told him unashamedly.
He laughed in that quiet, thoughtful way of his.
My thighs were on fire, but I resisted the pull to drop to my knees. I would have made a show of falling to the lawn any other day, but unfortunately, we had company. I believed if I told myself Nicolas’s presence was unfortunate, it would eventually feel that way. Grasping at straws was all I had.
My hair stuck to my sweat-soaked face, and my heart pounded without a pause. I rested my wrists on the top of my head, trying to catch my breath while my eyes unwillingly coasted to Nicolas. He wore a gray suit, white undershirt, and black tie. He looked like a million bucks, just as he always did. I had the sudden desire to wipe some of my sweat on him.
He flicked a gaze to me as he strode down the walkway. His expression wasn’t very nice for the half-second it landed on me. There wasn’t a kink in his step, and, from a distance, he didn’t appear to have been in a table-smashing fight last night. Tony was probably still sleeping downstairs, recovering. He’d spent the night, and I could only hope it was because he was thinking about his relationship with Jenny.
Papà’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Elena, come here.”
I groaned internally. That was the classic “Come meet this man” tone. Glancing at Papà, I tried to convey that I wasn’t dressed to meet someone, but he only gave me a blank look, his demand withstanding.
Dominic rounded the house to the back door and I burned with jealousy.
With a sigh, I headed to the porch and closer to a certain soon-to-be brother-in-law. My sweaty skin became a live wire.
I stood next to my father and his guest, but only vaguely heard my papà’s introduction because Nicolas was a few feet away. He leaned against a porch column with his hands in his pockets, his gaze warm against my face. A red mark marred his cheekbone, and it looked like he had a cut on the edge of his bottom lip.
That gentleman look went up in smoke . . .
I turned my attention to Papà’s guest. “It’s nice to meet you, Christian.”
I had the uncanny ability to subconsciously take in information, especially when it came to my father’s introductions.
I glanced at Christian’s face and then paused.
Because holy handsome.
Dark hair, piercing blue eyes, with soft yet angled features that were the epitome of masculine magnetism. But there was something cold about him. Maybe it was how his watch fit his wrist, how straight his tie was, how his suit was pressed, and how confident his stance was. The man was a perfectionist—I’d bet money on it. When he smiled, the cold look transformed into charm, if not a bit indifferent. He was so unbelievably handsome I found a blush warming my cheeks.