Everything makes perfect sense. He’s gorgeous, but he’s also not the brightest bulb in the box. I try to stifle my disappointment, but it’s as acute as finding out Santa Claus isn’t real when you’re a kid.
Damn.
“I did,” I tell him gently. “I was talking about my shirt, which has Jane Austen on it. Emily Brontë was actually born after Jane Austen’s death. She wroteWuthering Heights. Jane Austen is most famous forPride and Prejudice, among other titles. Anyway, you were mixing the two of them up.”
By the time I finish my explanation, I’m uncomfortably aware that I’m letting my nerd show. Not that it matters. I’m not trying to impress Alessio. I’m here to be maid of honor to my bestie. Not to hook up with a sexy stranger who can’t tell the difference between two of the most famous women writers in history.
A small smile curves his lips, like he finds me entertaining. “Are we talking about what you do, Jane Eyre?”
“No,” I deny instantly. “We’re not.”
Because I’m not talking about Christian, about the creative writing position I no longer have, about anything personal.
And then, belatedly, it occurs to me that he’s called me by a new name. One that’s also wrong.
I frown at him. “Jane Eyreisn’t an author. It’s the title of a book by?—”
“Charlotte Brontë,” he cuts in. “Just checking to see if you were paying attention.”
I have the sudden, strange impression that he’s been fucking with me all along. That there’s intelligence shimmering in the depths of those ocean-blue eyes. And something else too.
We stare at each other for a beat, and I didn’t know eye contact could be foreplay, but I’m so turned on right now, and it has nothing to do with the lemon drop I left behind at the bar.
I have a sudden mental image of excusing myself to the bathroom and Alessio following me in. He’d come up behind me, yank down my slacks and panties, and slide his dick into me from behind while I held on to the sink and anyone could come barging through the door and see us. He’d kiss my neck and watch in the mirror as he fucked me.
What’s wrong with me? I down the rest of my water to distract myself, and the server returns with our margherita pizza, saving me from further embarrassment. The heavenly scent hits me, and I concede he’s not wrong. If this is as amazing as it looks and smells, I’ll be one happy woman. It’s also huge, so that gnocchi I ordered may have to find a home in the mini fridge of my hotel room.
“Enjoy,” the server directs us with a smile.
We both thank her, and then Alessio dishes up a slice of the pizza onto an app plate before passing it to me.
Our fingers brush.
It’s like a jolt of electricity skips up my arm, zings through my blood, and lands directly between my legs. This is so not good. I jerk the plate away and almost send my generous portion of cheesy goodness flying to the floor.
Way to play it cool, Is.
“Thanks,” I bite out.
He’s looking at me like he felt it too. I see something burning in his eyes. Awareness. Attraction. Something primal and potentand it makes me want to skip the dinner and drag him back to my room so I can ride him until dawn.
“You’re welcome.” He serves himself, and I try not to drool over his tatted hands as I watch the casual movements.
Something about this man just screams power and sex and darkness. I’ve never been this attracted to anyone, and the force of it shocks me.
“Are you a bartender?” I blurt.
He gives me a long, slow look. “You’re breaking the rules again.”
“Fuck the rules.”
I’m feeling impulsive. Wild. I’m feeling like anything could happen, and for a woman who has lived every minute of her life planned to the most specific detail for the last few years, that’s terrifying.
He gives me a slow, assessing look. “Fine. I’m not a bartender.”
“Then what are you?”
Alessio shakes his head. “Not so fast. A question for a question.”
