But she’s right. She’s hardly the little one I teased and looked out for back in Spain.
She’s all grown up now. Even if I don’t want to admit it.
“I like your place,” I say as I step over the threshold into Carla’s apartment. “It’s a lot bigger than Bianca’s new flat.”
“It’s all packed up now.” She gestures toward the stack of boxes resting along the living room wall. “And New York City apartments are notoriously tiny.”
“Yeah,” I agree, looking around. “The layout, the view, it’s really nice.”
“My first big girl apartment,” she sighs, moving toward the kitchen and pulling out paper plates and a stack of napkins. “Sorry, my dishes are all packed.”
“Non ti preoccupari.” Don’t worry about it.
I place the take-out pizza box on the kitchen counter. There are two barstools tucked underneath and I pull one out to sit down.
“This is the first place I ever lived alone. I was so nervous but now…moving back in with my parents is going to be weird,” she continues, popping the cork on a bottle of wine and pouring me a portion in a plastic cup. “Don’t get all snobby on me, DiBlanco. It’s from California, not Italy.”
I smirk. “I like Zinfandel. On occasion. In fact, we produce a similar wine in Southern Italy called primitivo.”
Carla rolls her eyes, but a small smile ghosts her lips.
“And you can get your own place in Valencia,” I add.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, unconvinced. “I’m going to change before we eat. But please, help yourself.” She nudges a plate closer to me.
“Okay,” I say, as she walks out of the open-concept kitchen toward her bedroom.
She leaves the door half cracked and I force myself to look away.
As I pop the lid on the box, my mouth waters at the deep-dish pizza. That’s how hungry I am. Because while I can enjoy a Chicago experience, I hardly ever eat pizza outside of Italy. But right now, I’d eat anything, and I want Carla to have one last Chicago comfort meal before she leaves tomorrow.
Carla clears her throat and I glance up. She walks toward me, her gown dragging on the floor now that she’s kicked off her heels. She has one hand pressed to her chest, keeping her dress in place, as she spins around. “Can you help me with this zipper? Raia zipped me in and now, I can’t reach it.”
“Sure,” I say, standing slowly. The smooth expanse of Carla’s back, soft skin dotted with beauty marks, greets me. I place one hand on her shoulder, while my other shadows the center of her back. My large fingers fumble the delicate zipper before I grasp it. I drag it down the seam, working a swallow as the backs of my knuckles trail a featherlight path along her spine.
She shivers from my touch and I freeze. “Freddo?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m not cold. I’m fine.”
I drag the zipper the rest of the way down, mentally swearing that it glides over the swell of her ass. How did I not realize how tantalizingly sexy Carla’s gown is?
The material parts and her grip on the fabric slips, offering a peek of her breast as the heavy gown falls forward. I avert my gaze, one hand grasping her hip to keep the dress from sliding more.
“Thank you,” Carla murmurs, stepping out of my hold.
I nod, waiting for her to disappear back inside her bedroom. Then I close my eyes and suck in a breath, my nostrils flaring.
What the hell was that?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be noticing the dips and curves of her body. I shouldn’t be enamored with the feel of her skin or curious about the goose bumps that spread across her spine.
This is Carla García. Alejandro’s baby sister.
Shaking my head, I turn back toward my empty plate and full wine cup. I gulp it down in three swallows, refill my cup, and try to clear my mind.
I’m here to be a pillar of strength, of support, for Carla as she says goodbye to her life in Chicago. The last thing she needs is me hitting on her.
