Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I know I should slam the brakes.
I know I should remind myself this was supposed to be light and forgettable because if Gio catches us dating, he will make Luca’s life a living hell.
This evening is something I’ll laugh about with Poppy later, but I can’t help but wonder…
He glances over his shoulder and catches me looking, his smile going crooked, like he knows I’m enthralled with him.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he teases.
“Simply making sure you’re not screwing up my chicken.” I scoff. “I’m hungry.”
He pauses, gaze going straight to mine. “Same.”
His voice is low. Much rougher than before.
Not just hungry.
Hungry for me.
The kitchen is suddenly too warm, too quiet—as if the air was holding its breath right along with me.
I reach for the salt, pretending I didn’t hear the innuendo. “Well, let’s get the food in the oven, then. Before one of us does something stupid.”
He doesn’t move. Watches me for a beat. “Define stupid.”
I swallow. “Anything that results in Gio showing up at my door with duct tape and a shovel.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I inwardly cringe. Why am I letting my dumb brother control my actions?! THIS IS MY LIFE!
Mine!
Once the chicken is ready, we walk to the oven and slide it onto the rack. I shut the door with more force than necessary and set the timer. The scent of lemon and rosemary already lingers in the air, rich and delicious.
Luca finally moves, standing closely, his shoulder brushing mine.
“So…” he says, casually. “Now what do we do with ourselves?”
My eyes slide to his mouth, betraying me.
His chest.
Narrow waist.
Giant hands. Tanned, with veins on the backs of them that are better than porn.
I slide my eyes back to his face; his eyes are smiling and his mouth is grinning.
I roll my eyes and start the clean-up. “Now we clean up.”
He laughs at my transparency and begins picking up—grabbing a sponge from the sink and wiping down the stone counter. Rinses the cutting board. Wipes out the sink, gathers the utensils used in prepping the dinner, humming the entire time.
I am a child.
An immature, emotionally underdeveloped idiot who invited him here thinking she could handle this.
I cannot.
We work in a rhythm—he rinses, I wipe, we bump hips a few times, and each one is followed by an exchange of those little looks that last half a beat too long.
“Okay, seriously,” I say finally, drying the last bowl. “How often have you done this?”
“Done what?”
“Disarmed a woman with your amazing culinary skills.”
He stares blankly, tossing the yellow terry cloth dish towel over one shoulder. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Ugh! Is he going to make me say it?!
He is.
I can see it in his eyes. They’re sparkling.
“You know damn well what I’m getting at!” I laugh, tossing the sponge onto the counter and crossing my arms, well aware that his eyes will go to my boobs. “You’re helpful. Funny. Competent.” I huff. “It’s so annoying. Is this a trap?”
“A trap?” he echoes, clearly delighted by my irritation. “Because I know how to clean a dish?”
Yes.
Yes, God dammit!
His grin is slow and wicked. “You think I’m sexy, don’t you?”
Yes.
I throw my hands up. “I walked straight into this.”
“You did,” he says, taking a step toward me. “But I appreciate it.”
“You’re so full of yourself,” I say, aiming for disapproval but failing miserably.
“Only when I’m right.”
His hand lifts, thumb brushing a streak of flour from my cheek. The touch is light, but my skin burns beneath it.
“Tell me more about those ghosts in your pants.”
Oh my God.
I notch my chin up. “I never said I have ghosts in my pants.”
“You’re right. What you said was, ‘I wasn’t joking when I said there was a ghost in my vagina.’”
Is that supposed to sound like me? “Please don’t ever quote me again. I was venting to my friend.”
He chuckles. “You were very passionate about there being a ghost.”
“I was not,” I say, mortified. “It’s a running joke I have with Poppy—one you were never supposed to see.”
He leans in just slightly, eyes locked on mine, amused and utterly unbothered. “Well, I did see it. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Stop thinking about my haunted vagina.”
His grin curves slow and smug. “Impossible.”
We’re standing far too close now, a breath apart. The kitchen hums around us, oven ticking quietly behind me, but all I can focus on is him—his nearness, his voice, his scent—citrusy from the lemons and far too sexy.
“I have more questions,” he says. “Does the ghost have a name?”
My mouth opens, closes. “You are not ready for that answer.”
He arches a brow, stepping forward just enough to make my breath hitch. “Try me.”
I don’t know why I tell him—probably because his voice is dipped low, teasing the heat already pooling inside my pussy—or maybe because I’ve already crossed whatever boundaries I had drawn for myself tonight.