“No, I already ate.”
“Let me guess. Beef.” With lots of seasoning. I had never had that many spices on my spice rack and in my fridge. Or boxes from Breading Dreams, everyone’s favorite bakery.
“I used that one pan that you’re going to throw away, anyway, after I leave, and I opened all the windows.”
There was a challenge in the way he looked at me, like he wanted me to react. So, I didn’t, though I was dying to lecture him about what he consumed and the grease that stuck to his veins and my studio walls.
“Thanks for the organic soap, by the way,” he said with a smile.
“You’re welcome. No chemicals. It’s … better for you.” A visual of him naked in my shower, using the soap, flashed in my mind. “Who did youcazzothat many times on the phone?” I asked to divert my attention, and his.
“My mother.”
I huffed a surprised chuckle.
“And my brother, Davide. We talked about you.” He smirked. From his place across from me, I could see his eyes slide from my eyes to my lips, down my chest, and back up.
I got up to put my plate in the sink and wash my hands. I then turned around but remained standing by the counter. “So, with that manycazzo, you told them that you fucking got married, and that it’s fucking terrible, and that you’ll fucking get a divorce? Or did you tell them it fucking had to be done because you need a fucking green card?”
That husky laughter burst out of his throat. “The first.” He smirked again. “You curse?”
“When the occasion calls for it.”
His gaze glided down my body. I wasn’t imagining it. It was a different look. He looked at me like I was a different woman. Why did it make my pulse thrum in my throat?
“It’s a beautiful language,” I tried to divert the conversation.
“You think so?” Angelo got up and circled the breakfast bar.
I felt trapped with less than three feet between us, but he only came to take a glass of water.Tap water. To wash down the beef. This is what you want, June?If not, why was I perspiring?
“You could read the IRS guidelines in Italian, and it’d still sound …” I hardly knew what I was saying, just that the last word “sexy” had to be stopped before it fell out of my lips.
What was happening here? What was happening to me?
The atmosphere in the studio rustled like tin foil. Was I the only one feeling this?
“Even better, I could read you the Immigration guidelines,” Angelo said, looking at me with a little grin, his lips hovering on the rim of the glass. He took a sip, and in that short moment, his eyes traveled up and down my body, like he was already thinking about what he’d do to me.
Iwas thinking about that.
A dry chuckle died on my lips.
I wanted him.
I fucking wanted him.
What thecazzo? I couldn’t remember the last time I physically reacted to someone like that. Maybe never.
He’s just a player. It’s not worth it, I kept reminding myself.He might be playing you with those bedroom eyes and gravelly voice just to see your reaction. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
The thing was, he wasn’t even trying. I’d handed him the ammo.
A sudden, loud guitar riff ripped through the otherwise silent studio and broke the lingering moment.
Angelo turned toward it. It was his phone on the coffee table.
“‘Immigrant Song’ by Led Zeppelin, by the way,” he said while taking big strides back to the living room.
