I have a feeling humans haven’t treated the dog well in the past. He might be a rescue.
Bare feet come into my view, and I drag my eyes up my wife’s legs until I reach pink pajama shorts and a matching top stretching over her perky tits, making her nipples pop. I want to flick them.
Benedetta crosses her arms over her chest, and I stand. Her mussed hair is piled up in a messy ponytail. She wears no makeup, and her face is pale, her eyes, naturally brown, hazel in the morning.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say back.
Her feet move and draw my gaze. She curls her toes. Her nails are painted pink, and she wears a golden toe ring. She’s so fucking young. Nineteen to my thirty-eight.
“Is today Saturday?” she asks.
“Friday.”
She nods, not moving into the kitchen. The dog’s also still at my feet, staring at my shoes.
“I came back a day early,” I explain.
She nods.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I lift the already poured cup. “I made some.” I don’t exactly know how much ground coffee goes into any of the three machines Mika womans in the kitchen, but soon enough, I’ll find out if my measurement was any good.
I miss my housekeeper already, and I’m gonna be sorry I made her take a leave. Gerald got a temp to cover during Mika’s absence, but still, Mika knows my routine. And likely my wife’s by now.
Benedetta takes reluctant steps toward the counter.
“I don’t bite,” I say. Well, I do bite, just not in the current context.
A smile tugs on the corner of her lips as I reach for sugar. I put two spoonfuls in for me and pour milk, raising an eyebrow in question at her.
She shakes her head. “Black, please.”
I slide the cup to her and head for my place at the table. My wife’s walking out of the kitchen.
“Benedetta,” I say. “Sit with me.”
She takes a seat across from me, keeping her eyes on the cup, gripping it for dear life. I glance at the dog, who’s tucked his tail and is slowly crawling under the table.
“I haven’t given you any reason to fear me,” I snap. “You and I both know I’m not the villain of your story.” Her father called me in the middle of the night, begging me to marry her. Apparently, a member of another Italian family asked for her, and her father couldn’t bring himself to give Benedetta to a man on his fourth wife. The other three died in “accidents.”
To make it appear real and as if I asked for her, I paid him five million for my bride. He signed a partnership with me, bringing me all the legal businesses he owns. Some I’ll keep. The others I’ll sell. As for my wife, he forwarded me a picture of her, and I said yes. Any man would. Benedetta is exceptionallybeautiful, with huge dark eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair. I’m keeping her.
Her gaze lifts. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t sir me. You’re my wife.”
She nods, eyes wide. Benedetta’s long, pale, slender neck allows me to see her hammering pulse.
I nod back. We’re in agreement. “How did you find the house?”
She smiles. “It’s nice.”
“And the staff?”
“They’re also nice.”
“And my brother?”
