Gianna
Nico was sitting on one of the barstools, sipping beer and, as always, wearing nothing but sweatpants. My first reaction was one of relief. At least he was safe. But once that registered, it quickly faded away, replaced by the anger and hurt that had been bubbling inside my chest since that night.
“And not everyone is as lucky as Nicholas Baldocchi. I’m sure he doesn’t get tired of telling you that every day.”
I snorted at the idea. If only Maximus knew. And how dare he ask me where I have been after being completely MIA for the last three days? He had no right to question me. None at all.
“So you’re home,” I said flatly.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Nico said, crossing his arms across his broad, tattooed chest. “It’s past midnight, Gianna, and you dodged security…”
