The Bucket List

7.1 The Intruder

She'll forgive you. She always does.

This thought brings me no comfort as I step outside, my head still pounding a steady rhythm. It'll take the painkillers at least twenty minutes to kick in. If I make it that long.

Nicholai is leaning against a sleek black vehicle, parked haphazardly in our shabby little parking lot—made noticeably less shabby by the presence of the foreign masterpiece and its impeccably dressed driver. He nods at my approach, a lazy smile curling his lips.

"You changed," he notes, popping open the passenger door. He gestures for me to crawl inside, which I manage with as little grace as possible.

"I wasn't going to wear my bar clothes," I mumble, palming the hem of my dress. Nicholai slides into the driver's seat and immediately starts fiddling with one of the dials on the dashboard of his...I frown. "Which car is this?"

"Lamborghini." He sounds bored. "Not as fun as the Ferrari."

"Whoops."

"Whoops," he mutters with dark amusement, pulling out into traffic with a startling jolt. I quickly do up my seatbelt, balking at the speed.

"She's new," I muse, running a finger against the edge of the leather seat, inhaling the smell of it.

"She is."

And that's the extent of our conversation. Nicholai likes his music loud, which is fine by me. I try to relax as we speed across the city, to the palace he calls home, my eyes lingering on the watery horizon and the man at my side. I watch him as discreetly as possible—watch the way his fingers tap the gear shift between us, hands gliding smoothly across the steering wheel.

Distracting. Everything about him is distracting.

He glances at me, our eyes catching for the barest hint of a second. Thoroughly caught, I pretend to squint against the harsh glare of the sun and rifle around in my purse for my glasses, shoving them on unceremoniously.

Subtle, Amara. Real subtle.

Nicholai gets us to our destination in record time. The house looks just as it did the day before: ostentatious, he called it. Exhausted—the morning's already been far too eventful for my liking—I stumble out of the car. The ocean breeze stirs my hair, offering a breath of relief. There, and then gone.

I ignore my misery, focusing instead on pulling at the hem of my dress—too short, your ass is out—and not snagging a heel on a stray pebble. I stare up at the glass behemoth overlooking the sea, thinking of iced water and blessed, blissful air conditioning.

"You didn't have to change, you know."

Nicholai is standing dangerously close. I crane my neck back to get a better look at him. "I wanted to." I shift from foot to foot, second-guessing my decision.

The movement draws his eyes down, lingering on my black plumps. "I like the shoes."

"Mr. Nicholai, sir."

A gentleman in a ball cap and a sleeveless t-shirt emerges from around the side of the house, carrying a pair of shears.

"Michael." Nicholai's smile is genuine. Warm, even. It's not the arrogant smirk I've grown accustomed to.

"Mr. Nicholai," Michael repeats, bobbing his head. "The palm trees are due for a trim. Figured me n' the boys could start out back."

"I trust your judgement. Michael, let me introduce you to my assistant." He draws a buzzing cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Miss Amara Rossi. Amara, Michael will fill you in on the projects we're currently juggling." He dips his chin. "I'll be with you both shortly."