Celeste;
What's he doing here?
When Caruso alights, my pulse flares and burns beneath my skin like a signal screaming, 'Danger, Danger, Retreat.'
He leans on his car, hands and ankles crossed as he stands there in a plain white T-shirt and jeans. Tatted skin peeking out from the short sleeves of his arms, the evening breeze swaying the dark tendrils of his hair.
"Coming or not?" His cold voice snaps at me.
I'm instantly aware of the fact that I've been holding my breath while assessing bits of him.
"What are you doing here?" I bite back, brows knitting in confusion.
My neck swivels sideways, eyes darting at every corner in search of someone else. Someone rather calm and clad in an expensive suit and Italian shoes.
"If you're looking for your husband, he's not coming," His gaze falls to my ring.
Why does warmth blossom low in my abdomen, and why do I have the impulsive urge to wrap my palm around my ring finger?
"Oh…" I muse, not really having anything to say.
