I make inarticulate noises of discomfort and disbelief, that amount to, “I dunno about that.”
“No wonder Dante fell for you.” She keeps my hand in hers, and it’s weirdly nice as she draws me down to sit back onto the sofa next to her.
“Well, that’s definitely—” I begin, but she interrupts.
“I know what Dante said about this all being a mix-up, but I am a total romantic and I believe, so allow an old lady her dreams?—”
“You are not an old lady!” I object.
“But you have to tell me all about yourself, because I’ve waited decades for Dante to marry, and now he has, I want to fully enjoy having a sister.”
She’s such a whirlwind of sunny warmth, even more so than at the wedding, and I can’t get an objection in sideways, however hard I try. This used to be her home, but she acts as thoughit’s my house, and defers to me as she ensures we have lunch together. Then we spend the afternoon in the lounge, her asking me about what I like to read and telling me that the books in the lounge belonged to her mother.
And we’re still there hours later when the hairs go up on the back of my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something or perhaps I feel him.
Because almost behind me, Dante is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, his suit jacket discarded, and his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing black tattoos and dark arm hair that I wish I had the right and the courage to pet. It looks soft, like a bear’s fur.
His expression is part exasperation and part indulgent patience.
His green eyes travel over my face, and I wonder how long he’s been standing there, watching me. Us, I correct myself. But my body doesn’t feel as though he noticed his sister.
I could get lost in his mossy, dark-green eyes, like a forest of scented Italian cypress trees.
His hands are in his pockets, and his thumb is hooked out, and that detail sends shockingly feral ideas into my head. Of his thumb on my lips. In my mouth. Stroking my neck. Pushing my knees apart and pressing into the place between my legs that no one has touched.
I flare with inappropriate heat, and my thighs squeeze together instinctively.
“Hi,” he mouths, a smile tugging at his lips.
Pleasurable shivers go down my back. It’s only been a few seconds of me staring at my accidental husband, but it’s long enough to light me up.
“Dante!” Lucia exclaims, noticing that she’s lost my attention.
“I hope my sister hasn’t been too unbearable.” Dante raises one eyebrow, still looking at me.
“Oh pish!” Lucia shakes her head with mock outrage. “You left her all alone.”
“I don’t mind!” I say, oddly protective of Dante. “I told him to work as usual.”
Lucia throws her hands up. “Fools, both of you. I will leave you to it.”
She’s a blur of perfumed hugs and promises that she’ll see us again soon, then she’s gone.
There’s a beat of silence.
“How was—” I begin.
“Would you like—” he starts simultaneously, and we both break off, a crackle of awareness between us.
Maybe he’s remembering how cold my feet were last night. He’s going to suggest socks. Or divorce.
“You go first,” I say, even though I’d rather ask him about his day and try to help in that way.
“I saw there’s a book signing at an independent bookshop,” he says. “I thought you might like to go. Perhaps get some inspiration for your book cover business idea.”
My surprise must show on my face. A bookshop visit? Of course I’d like that. A signing? I mean, yeah, for sure. The only issue is that this isn’t what Dante wants to do, is it?
“I’d have asked Lucia to take you, because I know she loves books, but…” He gives a wry smile and waves his hand at the door to indicate that his sister left like a cartoon character who realises their nemesis has entered the room. “You’ll have to make do with me, instead.”
