I woke up the next morning to the delicious smell of espresso.
Not the cheap kind. The Dario Moretti probably grinds his beans with a diamond-crusted machine kind. But I didn’t leap out of bed.
No.
I stayed right where I was—sprawled across the stupidly expensive sheets, face half-buried in a pillow that smelled faintly like money and male ego.
Because I knew he was downstairs.
Probably stewing.
Probably brooding.
Probably glaring at the phone in his hand every time it pinged with another Hi D! U single? text.
Yeah. That happened.
Maybe I gave out his number yesterday. Maybe Finn at the mall was hot. Maybe I was feeling myself in my new jeans and my brand-new “Saint with a Hint of Spite” top.
And maybe I was still petty about Dario kissing me like I was his last breath and then v
