Ariel has one thing down cold: The math is simple. Ten weeks of f*****g versus fifty years of longing for what once was. Ten weeks of her nails down my back versus a lifetime of cold sheets and colder what-ifs.
I drain the glass and turn to seize her by the wrist, just shy of bruising, so she knows this isn’t a joke.
“If we’re going to play with fire, we need rules,” I growl. “No feelings. No sleeping over. No…” My thumb passes over the hickey I left last night. “… marks.”
“We’re done.” She nods. “Scout’s honor. It’s a hate-f**k for convenience’s sake. It’ll never be anything more than that.”
The owner chooses that exact moment to shuffle back in from his smoke break outside, clearing his throat. “Signori, we are—”
A wad of my euros smacks his chest. He fumbles the catch, blinking at
