“We’re leaving.” Matteo crosses to the window and yanks the curtain aside, scanning the street below. He lets it fall and turns to face me. His jaw is tight. Grinding.
“Where are we going?”
“My place. I have business today. Can’t leave you here alone after that.”
“So you’re just going to… what? Lock me in your house while you’re gone?”
“Well, I can’t exactly stick around to entertain you.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of asking.” I try for sarcasm, but my voice wavers. His eyes drop to my hands.
He’s across the room in three strides. Before I can react, he’s crouching in front of me, his big hands wrapping around my trembling fingers.
He doesn’t look at me. Just stares at our fingers, his jaw tight, his thumbs moving across my knuckles. Warming them. Steadying them.
Neither of us speaks.
This gentleness is so at odds with everything else about him that something cracks open in my chest.
After Viktor, I was sure I’d flinch at any man’s touch. Turns out I was wrong.
My trembling slows. Matteo’s hands are rough and warm and so much bigger than mine. I wonder if he has any idea what this is doing to me.
“He’s not getting near you.” His voice drops. “You understand?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Finally, he looks up. He holds my gaze for a long moment. The intensity should scare me. It doesn’t.
Eventually, the trembling stops. My breath evens out. But he doesn’t let go, and I don’t pull away.
“You sure you trust me with your house?” I manage finally. “What if I throw a wild party?”
That doesn’t quite get a smile out of him. More like the ghost of one. “If I can’t trust my fiancée, who can I trust?”
I laugh despite everything. “Wow. That was almost a joke. Good for you.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s warmth there now. Something soft underneath all that hard. “Must be your influence, Sunshine.”
The fond way he says it shouldn’t make me this happy, but here we are.
He’s still holding my hands. Still crouched in front of me. And the fear is fading, replaced by something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse race for a different reason.
He stands, pulling me with him. I tilt my head back. His eyes drop to my mouth.
My heart forgets how to beat.
My lips part. His head starts to lower?—
And his phone screams to life in his pocket.
We both freeze. For a second, neither of us moves. Then he stands, jaw tight, and pulls out the phone. The look he sends me is pure, undiluted sexual frustration, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a little better about being interrupted.
He turns away to answer, voice clipped. “Yeah.”
I retreat to the kitchen. Rinse my coffee mug. Put it in the dishwasher. Grip the edge of the counter and try to slow my breathing.
What the hell am I doing?
