Tom

Tommaso

I looked at Paige for a long moment. The fire in her dark eyes hadn’t dimmed, but her mouth had thinned into a severe line. She wouldn’t be letting me weasel out this time, even though I had no better answer to give her.

Despite that, I chuckled. Tom. That name didn’t belong to someone like me, raised from the womb for blood. It belonged to an accountant or, well, a graphic designer. Someone who kept normal hours and grilled steaks on the weekends for the wife and kids.

She blinked. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said. “To your ques—”

“No one calls you Tom, huh?” she asked.

I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips. She was still such a puzzle to me, but she read me like a book. “No, no one else.”

She crossed her arms. “No one? Ever?”

I laughed. “My nona called me Tommy sometimes. That’s about it.”

“You don’t look like a Tommaso to me.” She looked me up and down.

My skin heated in the path of her gaze. “Well, you can call me whatever you like.”

She pursed her lips. “You didn’t a