Except Paul has played it well for me, and what can I say, I'm in one of those moods.
"Thanks for the gospel, Saint Paul." I crunch on the cucumber with sudden vengeance. "I'll take your legal advice. I don't get the craze with Italian men anyway."
"Please," Ben drawls, head tipping toward me. "You want an Italian to love you."
Crunch. "Do I?" I make a bored face.
"Yeah." He nods slowly. "We're intense lovers."
Crunch. "Is this your sexual résumé pitch?"
His smirk curves. "Wouldn't you like to know."
I roll my eyes. "Please. I'd rather not ruin the mystery—or the comedy."
Ben's lashes drop, a shadow crossing his mouth and leans over, close enough to whisper in my ear so no one can hear. "I can promise you that my real talents can't be put on résumés."
I pull back, glaring, tempted to smack him. Instead, launch an olive at his head.
He dodges it, smirking. Damn his reflexes.
Still, I lick my fingers and pretend I'm the one in charge. "Keep it to yourself. Nobody cares."
"Careful, Em," Paul murmurs, amused as he watches us. "You bruise him too much and he gets poetic."
Ben smirks, but holds my gaze. "Someone has to let herknow what she's missing." He leans back, throwing his arm across my back rest, the light catching on his exposed chest. "Want to know why Italian men are the best lovers?"
I inhale sharply, rolling my eyes. "Enlighten me."
"It's not the hands. Not the mouth. Though granted, we're fluent in both," he says before his eyes pin me, the air tightening between us. "It's because we burn for the part of you that you think nobody will love. The part you hide, even in front of yourself. We'll love it, and kiss it, and worship you, because we don't want you to be tamed or perfect. We are designed to hold your chaos."
Okay, not bad. The way he said it had that Italian-fire-level hot.
No way he'll know that, though.
I press a hand to my chest, pretending to swoon. "Beautiful. Truly. Let me know when you drop your merch next to Keats. And by the way, I love how you preach about surviving the mess while you tend to cause most of it."
Mara bites her cheek, snorting a loud laugh.
Ben's glare lands squarely on her. "Really? No national loyalty?"
She inspects the little stars on her pink manicure instead of answering, so his brow cocks, voice dipping into that dangerous register. "Sibling loyalty?"
She takes a slow sip from her glass, considering the odds, then shrugs.
"I'm done with this," he says bitterly and nudges his plate. Then he faces Paul. "Word of wisdom—you shouldn't marryher. She'll give you ulcers."
Paul subtly backs off, retreating before he gets caught in the storm. "She makes the best tiramisu, though," he mumbles, obviously claiming his team. Smart man.
Ben? Brave. As always. Ready to strike.
"Yeah, everything else?" Ben flicks his fingers for quote marks: "And while stirring constantly, we dump it straight into the dumpster."
I almost lose it, but squeeze it shut because I can't do this to Mara. But holy hell, my throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper from all the pepper.
Mara pops on her smile like candy dipped in poison. She flicks with her nails. "You're lucky I've been here long enough to be in a good mood. Didn't your wife turn you into a vegan rabbit? Or whatever she's molding you into now?"
Ben's eyes narrow and he spits,"Che cavolo."
