Chapter 4
“Skirts are my favorite thing in the world. Wait. What was the question?”
-Flint
Celia bounced down the stairs after her soak in the tub. She wore one of her signature skirts that hit right above her knee and showed off enough leg to torture me. Her long cinnamon hair was smoothed over her shoulders. But it was her eyes that did it every single time. When I first met her, I thought she had caramel-brown eyes. Upon closer inspection, I saw flecks of gold in there.
She was breathtaking.
It scared the hell out of me.
I’ve led guys into buildings wired with explosives. Our team rescued Luke from international terrorists hell-bent on revenge. But one look at this 5’4” woman reduced me to a blubbering idiot.
“You look,” I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Amazing.”
Celia swatted my arm. “Yes. It’samazingwhat a little soap and water will do. Feels good to get that gas station grime off of me.”
I shook my head. She had no idea what she did to me. That swift touch on my arm alone had me thinking about getting her dirty again. But I promised her dinner and dinner she would have. “How does Italian sound?”
“That sounds wonderful,” Celia sighed and grabbed her purse.
???
If you didn’t know where to find the best Italian food in Tampa, you’d blow right past it. Cibu Ristorante was tucked away in a strip mall between a veterinarian and a used bookstore. It was only wide enough for two two-person tables and a walkway in between. And there were only about twenty tables total. Just the way the owner liked it. Domenico opened the restaurant when he felt like cooking for others. And often, you’d find him and his mother in the kitchen, whipping up dishes from their home country, while arguing loudly in Italian.
“Um, I think the place is closed,” Celia turned to me as we stepped up on the sidewalk.
Domenico threw open the door and cut off my reply.
“Entrare!” Domenico cried. “Come in! I have your table all ready.”
I grinned at the tiny blond Italian, then turned my attention to Celia, placing my hand on the small of her back and urging her to go through the door. She tilted her head to say something but entered the restaurant instead.
“Best table in the house,” Domenico pointed to the one by the window. Two glasses of Chianti already graced the place settings. “Sit, sit!”
Celia and I settled in. She looked around. “Menus?”
I chuckled.Oh, what fun was in store for this sexy siren.
Domenico folded his arms across his chest. “No menus here. You eat what I cook for you!”
With a dramatic flourish, he disappeared into the kitchen, where he immediately began barking orders at his Italian mother. She yelled back. I could only make out about a third of the conversation. I took a sip of the wine to clear my throat and nearly choked when Domenico argued with his mother about the best dish to serve to new lovers.
“What is going on?”
Celia’s question brought me back to her. “What?”
She pointed around the space. “What is going on here? It’s Friday night. Where are the other diners?”
“We’re it, babe,” I leaned toward her. “Domenico and I go way back. He opened as a favor to me.”
Celia leaned back a fraction, reminding me that the table was too small for me. I felt like a giant sitting in a dollhouse. I straightened in my chair.
“So, he just cooks whatever he wants?”
“Pretty much,” I smirked. “And people pay handsomely for it.”
She frowned. “What if he cooks something I don’t like? Or what if I’m allergic?”
