Page 12 of The Mobster’s Prize

“Time for bed,” he barks.

And here I was enjoying the quiet and the warmth of the fire.

Despite being locked in this place, it’s actually a nice change from answering phones all day and listening to everyone’s complaints. I thought customer service would be a way to help people, but it turns out, people are miserable. And mean. Which is why I’d rather bake cupcakes. Cupcakes make people happy.

Maybe I should bake this guy some. He seems like he could use one. Or a dozen, judging by that permanent scowl.

“You can go to bed. I’m enjoying the fire.”

“It wasn’t a question,” he grits, stepping closer. “Now, get up.”

“Fine.”

Mr. Grumpy Pants will have another conniption fit if I don’t do as I’m told, so I follow him into the bedroom, wondering exactly how this is going to work.

“Where am I sleeping?”

“In the bed.”

“And you?”

“Do you know how to count? How many beds do you see in this place?”

Gosh, he is such an ass.

“Sleeping together on the first date.” I hold my chest like a scandalized damsel. “Well, I never.”

Another growl comes grumbling out of him. But he has yet to hurt me. Most men in his position probably would have slapped me by now. I know my dad’s men would have backhanded me if I spoke to them this way.

“Just get into bed, smartass.”

Ooh. I’ve been given a nickname.

“Anything you say, Pooky.”

I hop onto the mattress, crawling straight into the middle, getting comfortable before I turn onto my side. I pat the spot beside me, and his ears turn red. Jaw clenching even tighter. His big hands curl into fists at his side. Maybe I finally pushed too far. But then I notice the thick bulge forming beneath his sweatpants.

Oh.

Mr. Grumpy Pants is excited.

A shiver runs through my shoulders, and I think his excitement might be contagious.

“You need to avert your eyes, little girl.” His voice drops. “Or I might assume you want to spread those legs.”

For one weak second, I picture it. That fierce power radiating off him may be exactly what I need. Pinned down, forced to submit, relinquishing all control⁠—

No.

Absolutely not.

I don’t sleep with complete strangers who may or may not be psychotic. Though, judging by his neatly organized drawers, and all the family pictures I saw tucked inside them, I don’t think he’s crazy. And I was right about his smile. He is heart-stoppingly gorgeous when he smiles. His eyes light right up, and you can almost feel the warmth through the photograph. You can see it when he looks at his sisters, too. The protective brother.

It’s sweet.

But that sweetness isn’t directed at me.

“Sorry,” I say, “but mobsters aren’t my type.”