Quickly, I pull the lamp’s string. Too hard! The lamp topples over the nightstand and crashes to the floor.
Shit.
I roll over onto the other side and use the bathroom in the dark, trying to recall where the housekeeper keeps the broom and a vacuum. No clue. Damn. Nevertheless, I must find cleaning supplies, which means I must visit the main house; ergo, I might run into Alessio.
I’d rather not.
But I have to. I can’t let the broken glass stay on the floor, as I might forget it by morning and accidentally step on it as I roll out of bed.
I wash my face and brush my teeth before heading out. When I walk back into the bedroom, I turn on the lamp on the other side of the bed and scream.
The bedroom’s French doors that face the courtyard are wide open, and Alessio is just standing there, holding a tray.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, his gaze roaming over my body. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” I clear my throat and control my breathing to prevent a heart attack. “No, I’m fine. Sorry about the lamp. I’m usually not clumsy. I’ll clean it up.”
“Fuck the lamp,” Alessio says, his tone like a whip slicing the air.
“Okay?”
He places the tray on the dresser and walks past the bed so he can see me. Immediately, his gaze finds my feet. Slowly, ever so slowly, his gaze climbs my body.
People often talk about how men look at women in a way that makes women feel like they’re undressing them. This isn’t one of those looks. This is something else. Something feral.
“Lake,” Alessio says, and the tone raises goose bumps on my arms. “Why are you walking barefoot over broken glass?”
I wiggle my toes. “I didn’t walk there.” When the room doesn’t get any warmer because Alessio’s chilling me to the bone, I try to warm him up with humor. “I won’t walk over glass. I’m not stupid. Duh.” I chuckle and smile, hoping he’ll just let it go, because something about the way he’s looking at me is freaking me out.
It's almost as if he’s deadly serious, and I mean that as in both deadly and serious. Alessio isn’t to be fucked with. I bite my lip, now realizing he’s not in the mood for jokes. If I raised my middle finger to lift the mood now, he’d probably bite it off. I curl my fingers into fists.
“You find my concern over you getting hurt funny?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.” I also curl my toes because he’s staring at my feet again.
“Why did you laugh, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s not funny.” Because deadly serious Alessio scares me, and I’m trying to defuse the situation.
Alessio steps forward, bends, and throws me over his shoulder. I screech when he lands two slaps on my bottom as he walks out of my bedroom.
We pause by the door, and he grabs the tray holding covered plates of food.
“Can’t forget to feed her. Can’t forget,” he mumbles.
I think that’s me. He’s saying he can’t forget to feed me.
I hear the thud of the French doors closing before Alessio walks by the pool.
“Please put me down,” I protest.
“Quiet.”
“Alessio, I’m not a bag of potatoes. Put me down.”
“I said quiet. Last warning.” We’re in the mud room, passing the kitchen. Thankfully, it’s eleven at night, and Leo’s asleep, so I don’t have to worry about him seeing me getting spanked over his uncle’s shoulder. But that also means I must be quiet.
Alessio gets his wish.
