“Okay,” she practically sings. “One bland lunch and some meds for your poor tummy coming right up.”
She skips off into the house, letting herself in through the sliding door. I sit for another minute, stewing in my humiliation. Great. Now, on top of what Amalphia might already think of me, she’s going to assume I smell like farts and have a cabbage intolerance. I mean, doesn’t everyone though? Cabbage is serious business. Delicious, but deadly.
I know exactly what will fix me right up, and it’s not an antacid I don’t even need.
It’s a cold shower.
Extra cold. Forcefully cold.
And a vow to get my head in order, which I’m going to force the rest of me to take seriously.
Chapter five
Amalphia
It’s taking Warrick an unusually long time to get changed. It also took him an eternity to get out of the pool.
I noticed the way his eyes lingered on my body longer than they should. He’s a man. He wasn’t checking me out because he wanted to check me out. I was just a body, a wet body, and we were both in each other’s line of sight. It was like a rhetorical question. A rhetoricalgaze. It didn’t get me all hot and bothered or anything.
Fuck, I’m such a bad liar.
I’m still feeling the shape of his huge, strong hands as they grasped my hips and scraped along my breast on the way to my shoulder while he propelled me off the bottom of the pool.
I had no idea what was happening. My eyes were closed, and I was focused entirely on my breathing exercises. I know what I was doing was dangerous, but I’ve been working at it for over a year already. If there was one thing I didn’t doubt about this whole arrangement, it was the pool. I love swimming. I’ve alwayshad to do it at a community pool, which involved swimming underwater so that I didn’t get the lifeguards hauling my ass out, thinking I was drowning, just like Warrick did.
My skin erupts into a fucking bonfire when I think about where his hands grazed me.
I’m putting together sandwiches with organic tomatoes, toasted garlic and onion specialty pickles, roasted red peppers, fresh basil, cheese from a block that proudly declares it’s been aged three years, and thick-cut back bacon, but I’m having trouble focusing.
The kitchen is so vast and empty that my knife echoes with every chop on the wooden cutting board.
Chop. Chop.I wonder if Warrick couldn’t get out of the pool because his body was burning too. Because he had issues down under.Chop. Chop.Stop it. You can’t go there.Chop. Chop.The dick department is not a store your mind should be shopping at.Chop. Chop.
Chop, chop, boom, boom, boom.
Warrick’s heavy tread echoes down the metal and glass staircase.
Great. There’s zero chance I can compose my face. I’m probably ten shades past red.
You know what’s even more attractive than wet, waterlogged Warrick in a pool with all his clothes slicked tight and outlining every muscle in his body? Freshly showered Warrick in a T-shirt that shows off the black and grey ink on his arms as well as all his numerous bulgy muscles and veiny veins. His jeans are faded and soft-looking, so I quickly keep going and get to his footwear. The tan loafers should scream Dad, but all they’re doing is taunting, DILF, DILF, DILF. Loudly.
It could be that I have a problem.
It could be that the problem is Warrick is hotter than fucking fuckitty fucknuts. Maybe I’m just fucking fuckitty fucknutted.
I wonder if there are groups out there dedicated to not having sexual thoughts about your ex’s parents. Dadaholics Anonymous or something.
“That looks good,” he says, his voice a little gruffer and deeper than normal.
I clear my throat, whipping my eyes back to the sandwiches. “Yeah, uh…yeah.” Nice. I’ve spent over a week here by myself, and this is what I have to say?
He saves me by pulling out a sleek black leather chair from the island that looks futuristic. The chair, I mean. Although the island is so modern with a weird pebbled tan texture on it, and the rest of the countertops have it, too, that I could also be referring to that. The cabinets are flat black with wood grain at the back and glass shelves. They’re mostly open, which makes dusting a nightmare. Also? Who makes shelving with glass that looks like it could shatter if you breathe on it? I swear the underwater breath-holding training comes in handy when I’m cleaning.
“Do you have any questions?” Warrick asks. He rests his elbows on the island top and links his fingers in front of him, giving me a view of his stunning forearms. Both of them have Greek gods etched all the way down. I don’t want to stare, even if masculine artistry draws my eye.
And the tattoos too.
“About the job?” I ask, my tongue thick in my mouth.
