A sting builds behind my eyes, and I blink hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling. “Knox Vale, you mystify me in the best way possible.”
He smiles. “That’s good.”
“I think so.” I laugh. He does, too. “And two weeks? We were supposed to be here for another five days.”
“I thought we could do with a fresh start and some extra time to make up for the mess I made of the last few days.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He winks at me. “So, how about we spend the day together? We can talk about sightseeing. I’d like to show you Italy. What do you say, love?”
“That sounds perfect,malesh.”
Knox smiles at the endearment and leans forward to kiss me. “Good. I want us to forget everything, Isla.” He gazes deep into my eyes, as if his next breath depends on my answer.
“Everything?” I search his eyes.
“Yes, love. No contract, not business, no clauses, terms, and conditions. Let’s just focus on you and me.”
“I like that even more.”
His eyes darken, heat simmering beneath the surface. “Then I think we should go back upstairs and start the day over.”
He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. Our lips meet for a hungry kiss, and I know my life’s about to change again.
But in all the very best ways, and I can’t wait to have my husband all to myself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Isla
The night airsettles around us in a hush.
Knox and I are outside on the terrace, taking a break from our incessant lovemaking to eat.
The outdoor kitchen looks like it was carved straight from a Tuscan dream. The smooth stone counter gleams against the moonlight, and the small gas cooktop glows blue beneath Knox’s pan.
He’s treating me to his homemade ravioli tonight.
I don’t know what’s better—the delicious-looking food I’m about to be served or watching the sexy, shirtless man cooking behind the stove.
Both. Definitely both. Although I’ll admit I’ll never get enough of watching Knox—shirtless or fully clothed.
I’m sitting around the counter relishing the sight, my tastebuds yearning for the taste of him and the food he’s promised is to die for.
The scent of garlic and seasoning drifting into the night certainly sways me to believe him.
The quiet hum of the lights and the faint chorus of crickets in the garden blend with the soft clatter of Knox moving around the stovetop like a sous chef in a high-end restaurant.
I lean against the counter, watching him.
Like this, he looks nothing like the sharp, polished billionaire who commanded the room this morning. He’s relaxed in a way I almost never see with his shoulders loose, jaw soft, and hair slightly mussed from my fingers earlier.
And he’s cooking.
Actuallycooking.
Handmade ravioli sits drying on a wooden board, dusted with flour. A pan simmers behind him, filled with butter, sage leaves, and garlic that perfumes the whole kitchen.
