“You gonna swim home?” The harsh wind carries a cashmere-coated question to my back. My shoulders snap into a tight line. I turn to see Raphael leaning against the frame of the French doors, humor dancing in his eyes. Christ, he looks handsome. Fresh suit, fresh shave. The only sign he’d beaten someone to death a few hours ago are his busted knuckles gripping a kitchen towel. I swallow the rock in my throat. “If I have to.” “Mm. Long way to swim on an empty stomach.” His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket and turns his attention to the screen. “Get inside, Penelope,” he says, without
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