Moving to the bed, Basili has already pulled the sheets back so that I can lay Emmanuel down, and together, we tuck him in from opposing sides. My stomach drops — one bedroom, one bed.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say, moving to the closet to look for an extra blanket.
“No.”
“No?” I turn back to face him, feeling my brows furrow together in response to my question. “Excuse me?”
“Emmanuel won’t sleep without you; you said it yourself.” He motions to the child soundly asleep in the middle of the king-sized bed. “You sleep on one side; I’ll sleep on the other. That way, someone is there if he wakes up at any point, even if one of us needs to step away to use the restroom or whatnot.”
I want to protest. I want to demand that I need my space and that sleeping on the couch is completely acceptable and reasonable. But I can’t; he just used my own logic against me, and I hate to admit it, but he is right.
“Fine,” I agree, trying desperately to interject more confidence into my voice than I actually feel.
“I’ll take the side nearest the door.” His lips quirk up with mild amusement. “Come now, try not to sound so utterly enthusiastic.”
Of course, he would, putting himself between us and any means of escape. Or threat. I’ve never shared a bed with a man before — never even come close. The orphanage had always been my sanctuary. The only men there were Jay and the occasional volunteer.
And they most certainly weren’t devastatingly attractive, dangerous mafia dons who could as soon kill me as kiss me. The idea of either of those outcomes sends a brief shudder through my body.
“I’m thrilled. Isn’t it obvious?” I reply sarcastically, rolling my eyes as I move to the side closest to the balcony and climb under the sheets beside the sleeping boy. My exhaustion overtakes my common sense.
Basili just smirks before grabbing the small bag he pulled from the back of the SUV before entering the hotel. “I’m going to take a quick shower and freshen up. Unless you would like to go first?”
“No, go ahead. I just want to sleep,” I admit with a yawn.
He nods. “ Get some rest. I’ll try not to wake either of you as I shuffle around.”
And with that, he disappears into the bathroom. I spend several minutes listening intently to the soothing cadence of the shower. Despite my exhaustion, I just can’t fall asleep. Instead, my sense of hearing is heightened and alert following each noise that’s created by the man in the other room.
This is insane. I’ve lost my mind.
Perhaps ten minutes later, I see the shadow reflection on the wall as the bathroom door opens and the dim light floods over the kitchenette area of the room. Basili is quiet, quieter than I’d expect a man of his size, as he moves through the space, setting down his bag on the side chair, his boots beside it on the floor.
On the other side of the bed, I catch the slightest glimmer of grey sweatpants, and it takes a moment for my brain to recognize that he is shirtless. The olive-toned skin covered in tattoos of his upper body is exposed on full display.
Oh my…instantly, I feel heat rise in my cheeks and make a strained effort to close my eyes before he catches me watching him.
The mattress dips as he gets into bed. He’s so close, even with Emmanuel between us, I can feel the added heat beneath the covers from his body. Can smell the expensive aftershave mixed with something earthy, masculine.
It’s going to be a very long night.
“Buonanotte,” he murmurs to his son as he kisses his forehead before lying on his back on his pillow. After a pause, he adds, “Good night, Chloe.”
Shit…
“Goodnight,” I manage, my voice slightly strangled.
I spend the next two hours attempting to will myself to sleep, but even in the small moments that I do sleep, it is soft and light. Each noise, each movement from the two other occupants of the bed, re-awakens my heightened sense.
So, I find myself staring at the ceiling, having an internal argument with myself.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-five years old. Just because I’ve never been around a man like this doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to sleep. Then again, who would be able to sleep when they were in the same bed as a ticking time bomb? Self-preservation is reasonable.
The argument goes on like this for several minutes before I have worked myself into such an anxious panic that I feel like I can’t breathe. I need air. Space. Something to clear my head and stop this spiraling sensation within.
As quietly as I can, I slip out of bed, grab my coat, and slip my feet into my sneakers before slipping out the glass doors onto the balcony. It’s cold outside, but I find that I am thankful that the snow hasn’t begun to fall yet this season.
“If you’re planning to run away, might I suggest the other door?” Basili’s voice behind me causes me to squeal in surprise. Whirling around, I find him standing in the doorway, shirtless still, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
