Something flashed in my brain—and I knew just what to say.I rose up on my tiptoes and set my hands on his shoulders and whispered, “I'm hungry, Stefan.Feed me.”
The look in his eyes changed immediately.And I really, really, really liked that look.
He pulled me in and touched his lips to mine.“You better not be bullshitting me.”Then he kissed the supreme crap out of me.I felt his hardness against my belly, and that just made me all achy inside.In a good way.
When he finally let me go, I asked, “Can I help with something?”I peered back at the big, steamy pot on the stove.
“Yes.”Stefan let me go and walked to the freezer.He opened the door and pulled something out before turning around and heading back to me.“Take this,” he jerked his head toward the wall of windows, “out there.And relax.”
I shook my head and sighed.“That's all I've been doing for days.I'm perfectly able to help with whatever you need.”
He lowered his gaze at me.“What I need, Francesca, is for you to listen to me.Do you think you can manage that for five minutes?”
Yikes.
I snatched the ice pop out of his hand.“I don't know,” I answered in my best sassy voice as I walked away from him and toward the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.
But not before I heard Stefan grumble behind me.“I don't know either.”
I was glad he couldn't see the huge grin on my face.
8
Francesca
Iplayed mindlessly with the stained wooden ice pop stick.To tell you the truth—I would love to have another one.But that would mean getting up.And I really didn't want to do that.Laziness had taken over.That—and the fact I didn't want to stop staring out at the sea.Watching the waves had an oddly hypnotic effect on me.
I heard Stefan's footsteps behind me, and I smiled.Having him look after me had not been terrible.
No.
Even though the circumstances were awful, it had been wonderful to have him around, caring for me.That was definitely something I'd never had in my life.I was always the one who looked after everyone else.It was nice to have the tables turned for once.
Stefan set down a beautiful wooden tray on the table.There was one large bowl of soup and a basket of rolls.The butter was on the side.
“What kind of soup is that?”There was something oddly familiar about it that I couldn't place.
“Pastina en brodo,” Carlo said with a smexy as heck accent that gave me tingles everywhere.
I let out a small laugh.“Oh, my granny used to make this for me when I was sick.”I had a sudden flashback to being seven or eight years old—just before she died.I'd been home from school with a wicked cold.That was the last time she'd made it for me.
Stefan's head snapped to me.“Was she Italian?”
I nodded and reached for a bun.“Yeah.Her grandparents left here when they were first married.”
He swiped the bun out of my hand and put it back into the basket.“And your grandfather?”
I frowned at him.“He was Italian, too.At least, I think so.He took off after he knocked my grandmother up.Never met the guy.”Quickly, I nabbed the bun back.What was he trying to prove by bringing a basket of warm buns to tempt me with?
“Francesca.”Stefan seized the bun from me.
Again.
“Do you ever listen?”
I groaned, “Why can't I have a bun?Are you trying to tease me?”
He smirked and sat down.Then he picked up the bowl of soup.“You'll know when I'm teasing you.Trust me.For now,” he scooped up a spoonful of soup and blew on it, “try the soup.Then we'll see how you feel.”
