"Relax," he says, laughter in his throat. "They were taken with your resilience. I may have raised your stock in the international community."
"Mystock?!" I lunge for the pistachio cream just to have something to throw, but he catches my wrist midair, easily, like he’s been waiting for me to snap.
"Careful," he murmurs. "That’s locally made."
I glare at him. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, and my traitorous pulse betrays me. "I also told them that the doctors dropped you on the floor during surgery, and that's why your face is all… messed up."
"My face is…" I huff for air, because… really? REALLY?
"You’re lucky this coffee’s good," I pout.
"I’m lucky every morning you don’t shoot me."
"Tempting, though."
He leans back, smirking. "If it helps, I told them you’re terrifying. They found that sexy."
"I’ll kill you," I mutter, half-standing. "Slowly. With a dull spoon."
He sets down his cup, smiling like a man who’s proud of his own funeral arrangements. "They were impressed. Said Italian men don’t usually talk so fondly about their wives."
"I’mnotyour wife," I snap.
"Tell that to the hospital people." He leans back, still grinning. "Anyway, I figured honesty builds trust."
"Honesty gets you castrated," I correct. "And while we’re at it, what else did you share? Blood type? Birthmarks? Favorite position?"
He pretends to think. "No. But now that you mention it, I could’ve mentioned that you're very flexible."
I groan. "You’re impossible."
"And yet, here you are, still eating my breakfast."
"Only because it’s good," I shoot back.
"So am I," he says with that infuriating little half-smile and a wink that makes my ovaries flutter. Yes, flutter. That’s a new one.
I lob a piece of sfincione at his chest. It hits squarely, leaving a tiny red stain on his shirt. "You’re lucky I don’t have a gun right now."
He looks down at the sauce, then at me. "You just marked me. Symbolic."
"You’re about to be symbolic for regret," I tell him, trying—and failing—not to smile. Why is this man growing on me?
He grins wider, wiping the sauce off with his thumb. "See? Normal breakfast conversation. We’re getting along already."
"Keep talking," I warn. "I’ll addexto that title of yours before lunch."
"Noted." He raises his cup. "To your very natural breasts and my continued survival."
"Drink fast," I say. "You’re on borrowed time."
He does, and I hate that the sound of his laugh lingers longer than my anger.
I swipe a finger through the pistachio cream and smear it onto the cornetto. It hits my tongue like nut and butter got married in a back room. My bad mood packs its bags. He watches me eat like a man learning my tells. Not creepy. Attentive. I should hate that. I decide to table the hating for later and dip my finger back into the cream. Slowly, intentionally, I lick it up from the base all the way to the top, before sticking the entire finger into my mouth. "Hmm. Good." I move the finger in and out for dramatics. All the while watching him.
A groan escapes him, and he shifts in his seat. Probably rearranging hisman parts. I smile wickedly, and he shakes his head before clearing his throat and asking, "How’s the head?" in a deep, husky voice.
"Foggy in the corners, but the main roads are open." I decide to have some mercy and switch to my coffee, sipping it slowly, eyeing him over the rim. "You drugged me."
