I don’t know what else to say.
She shrugs and says almost exactly what I’m thinking. “Everyone has problems,” she says. “Well, I used to believe that until I met your family. They might just be as close to perfect as I’ve met.”
I snort at that. “We’re not perfect.”
“Hmmm?” She’s got a twinkle in her clear green eyes. “I don’t believe you. Sweet, if a little too involved, mother. A dad who cooks and seems doting. Three gorgeous brothers with good jobs and lives, and a sister who, quite honestly, I’m sure most women wish they could be.”
When she puts it like that, yeah. We’re blessed. I know this. But that doesn’t mean we’re anywhere near perfect.
“I wonder about that sometimes,” I say, realizing a minute too late that she called me and my brothers gorgeous, so I backtrack. “And for the record, I’m the best-looking of the Bianchis. Benito ain’t half bad, but Vito…” I shake my head. “Gorgeous he is not.”
She laughs. “I don’t know,” she says, a teasing, playful note in her voice. I like the way the lightness in her tone sounds. “Firefighters are the stuff of romance novels. I would know, I’m a bookseller.”
That makes me snort. “Please do not put the image in my head of Vito on the cover of some book.”
“Any one of you could be on the cover—not just him,” she says, her face flushing. “Let me do the dishes. You’ve done enough and have been put out too much already.”
I hold my hands up in surrender and let her clear my plate. I have a dishwasher, but she takes the towel from around her shoulders and hangs it over the end of the counter to dry.
I can tell she’s not wearing a bra under her sleep shirt, and my cock immediately goes to half-mast in my jeans.
Under all those clothes, Chloe has abody. Her nipples are hard, the tips pressing against the soft fabric and distracting me from the fullness of her breasts.
Thank God she turns away to rinse the dishes because I’m twitching like a kid who can’t resist popping a sheet of bubble wrap. Those tight peaks are all I can think about touching.
I roughly shove my chair back in and try to think about anything else except her nipples. I start talking too, words spilling out of my mouth. “So, you said you weren’t sure you wanted Latterature? What are you thinking? You’re going to look the place over, fix it up a bit, and sell?”
She shrugs and glances back over her shoulder at me. “I hadn’t made any plans…at least not before tonight.”
At the mention of what happened tonight, my belly tightens with a different kind of tension. “And now?” I press.
I shouldn’t care what her plans are, but as she stands at my sink in her bare feet, it’s impossible not to be curious.
She dries the dishes and turns back toward me. The ends of her hair are hanging over her chest, blocking my view of her more arousing parts.
She smiles, but the gesture doesn’t reach her eyes. “I guess I was starting to feel like I could make a life here. Something different from what I had back home. Someplace I might finally belong.” A shadow passes over her face, but before I can say anything, she squares her shoulders and puts on a brave smile. “Guess I’m sleeping on the couch?”
“You can take my bed.”
She shakes her head. “No. No. I’m not putting you out of your bed. I probably won’t sleep much anyway. I’d rather take the couch. Please don’t argue with me about this, Franco.”
I nod. “I’ll grab some clean pillows and blankets.” I take the stairs two at a time to burn off some of the electric energy buzzing through my limbs and rummage through my hall closet.
When I’m halfway down the stairs, I see her peering nervously at the sliding glass patio door that leads into the backyard. She moves the curtain aside and checks to make sure it’s locked.
“Everything all right?” I ask, and even though she nods, I am not convinced. I start to set out the blankets, a sheet, and two pillows on the couch when she stops me with a hand on my arm.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ve done enough. Thank you.”
I nod and check the front door, garage door, and then the patio slider again so she knows it’s all locked up. “Sleep well,” I tell her.
I head upstairs but turn back to see her just sitting on the couch, not setting up the bedding. Not moving. She looks up and nods at me, that same artificial bravery plastered on her face.
“Stop,” I mutter to myself. “She wants to be alone for a little while.”
Post-traumatic stress and my mother’s matchmaking ideas are playing tricks with my head.
I stalk up the stairs and into the bathroom. I get ready for bed, then go into my room. But just in case, I climb into bed and leave the bedroom door open.
