Page 7 of Rent a Mob Boss

Her bottom lip disappears under her teeth. She looks at the shoes she’s holding and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Sure. Thank you so much.”

I lead the way as if she doesn’t know how to find the upstairs hallway—but really, I just need a few more seconds with her. When we come to a stop outside the guest room door, I imagine for one dangerous moment what it would be like to take her hand and keep leading her down the hall to my suite. Carrying her in, laying her down, and then…

“Goodnight, Quinn,” I choke out, since we’re veering into dangerous territory here, and I need to quit while I’m ahead.

“Goodnight, Mr. Moretti.” She disappears into the room and closes the door. I stand there, staring at it, the only soul in a dark hallway. There will be extra men on patrol tonight, and somewhere out there, a rival family is plotting something they can’t be bothered to be secretive about.

Yet all I can think about as I head to my room is the girl who, any minute now, is going to sleep in my guest bed, two doors down from where I can’t stop thinking about her.

I knew I’d have a hard time sleeping tonight. Now? It’s starting to look like an impossibility.

3

QUINN

I don’t sleep so much as I lie in a very expensive bed and fight with my own brain until the sky finally starts to go from black to gray.

This guest bed is the nicest thing I’ve ever laid down on, and it’s not even close. The sheets are so smooth, no wrinkles, like somebody actually took the time to iron them. People iron sheets? It’s like being rich is a whole different world. There’s a blanket at the foot of the bed that makes me feel like I’m wrapped in a tight, warm hug. The pillows are the kind of soft a person like me is not supposed to know about.

But I still can’t fall asleep, because every time I close my eyes, my traitor of a brain hits the play button.

What if I come with you?

He said it like it was nothing. Like he was offering to grab me a coffee or something. My whole life I’ve prided myself on being a levelheaded person. Grounded. I’m not the kind of girl who gets worked up over a man.

Yet here I am, feeling more like a zombie with every hour that passes, imagining walking into the Whitmore with Dorian Moretti’s hand at the small of my back. I can see Aaron’s stupid face in front of me every time I close my eyes—and I’m not going to lie, the thought of his jaw dropping when he sees us together makes me smile. Like, a lot.

And then there are my aunts, who would completely short-circuit one by one like old Christmas lights. I mean, it would be worth it just to witness their meltdown. I’d have to make sure my phone was out so I could record it for posterity.

I can imagine Dorian wearing a suit that fits him like his suits always fit him, and my stomach does something unforgivable. I roll over and shove my face into the pillows, whose ironed pillowcases probably cost more than my rent. I tell myself out loud, “He is your boss, and this is a business favor, and you need to go to sleep, Quinn.”

I do not, however, go to sleep.

When the door opens at what has to be seven in the morning, I’m somewhere in the gray fog between awake and dead. I have exactly zero defenses and totally garbage reflexes against the five-year-old who flies across the room like a small meteor. “Quinn! Wake up!”

Please save me. “Okay,” I groan.

“Are you awake?” If she bounces much harder on the bed, she’s going to bounce me right off. Or herself. Maybe both of us.

“No.”

“Your eyes are open.”

“They’re open in a sleeping way.”

She grabs the top of the blanket in both fists, and I realize roughly half a second too late what is about to happen. I slept in nothing but my underwear like a normal, exhausted person who did not plan on being ambushed at dawn and didn’t want to sleep in such a nice bed wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“Lillie, wait⁠—”

“We have to go!” She yanks the blanket clean off the bed with the full-body commitment of a girl who does not understand that other people have bodies, and I’m sitting up in nothing but my bra and panties, lunging for the blanket she’s now dragging across the floor like a sled. “Lillie, give me that—it’s cold, I need the⁠—”

“My pony is coming today!” As if I could forget. We didn’t talk about anything else yesterday.

I get up on my knees, crouching at the end of the mattress, reaching for the blanket, which she yanks away from my fingertips at the last second. “I know, honey, that’s amazing. Can I please have the blanket?”

That is exactly when Dorian appears in the doorway.

It looks like he’s come at a run. He’s in a dark shirt, sleeves pushed up, and his hair is doing a floppy thing like he hasn’t fixed it yet. He’s already scolding her. “Lillie, what did I tell you? I told you not to wake her up yet⁠—”