The intimidation was gone. What replaced it, however, was intrigue. Stella studied Vincent: his long legs, the muscular definition of which she could make out through his dark slim jeans; his broad chest and, she imagined, his equally as toned back. Her mind’s eye quickly lost its way through the tangle of images it suggested to her libido.
Then there were his eyes.
Those cool blue, almost frostbitten eyes.
Stella’s chest tightened with a new kind of tension, and her legs solidified where she stood. She fastened to the spot. The sensation wasn’t new, but it had been a while since she last allowed herself to react so viscerally to the presence of a man. She hadn’t thought about anyonethisway since Andrew in the early days of their relationship, and the fact that her mind had found a similar beat so easily with Vincent was unsettling.
In fact, it terrified her.
‘Stella, sorry about this morning.’ Vincent leaned forward and gave Stella a hug, and her petite frame was immediately lost between the vastness of his chest and the wrap of his arms. ‘It was rude of me to storm out on you like that. I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible first impression.’
As if in a trance, Stella returned the cuddle, but it simply didn’t register with her. It felt as if her arms and shoulders belonged to someone else. Disembodied and disconnected, at best.
Did that just happen?
Stella had heard Vincent’s apology, but couldn’t truly listen. The words washed past her ears, not stopping long enough for her to grasp their meaning. All she could feel was the lingering warmth of his touch. She was there in body, but not in mind and spirit.
Noting this, Marcella piped up. ‘Isn’t that nice, Stella?’ Her eyes widened and her stare fixed in such a way as to communicate with Stella in secret. ‘That was a lovely apology.’
Finally snapping from her daze, Stella stammered, ‘Yes. Thank you. Th-that’s fine.’ She cleared her throat and fiddled with the hem of her cardigan.
Marcella gestured that they should all take a seat, and Stella was the first to oblige before her weakened knees could betray her.
‘So,Americano, why are you suddenly in a better mood,eh?’ Marcella asked, brows raised suspiciously.
‘I’ve had a few rough days. Missed my original flight from JFK. One of my suitcases never arrived. Had a run-in with a taxi driver at Fiumicino.’ He shook his head incredulously. ‘Slept through my alarm this morning. Missed the sunrise . . . and a deadline. I could go on.’ His palms flattened on the table top. ‘It dawned on me this morning that I must have come across like a complete asshole, and I was suddenly filled with remorse.’ He looked between the two of them. ‘That wasn’t the real me, I promise. I’m hoping we can just put it behind us.’
Stella noted how Vincent’s eyes seemed to find a final resting place interlocked with hers. He held her gaze and the intimacy of the connection brought a flurry of heat to her cheeks. The intensity of his attention was intoxicating and, self-conscious, Stella was the first to look away.
‘Americano, we will be keeping a close eye on you to make sure that little scene never happens again.Va bene, eh?Capito?’ Marcella joked.
‘I promise.’ He crossed his heart. ‘Actually . . . it’s Vincent. Vincent Baker.’
‘Marcella Simeoni, and this is Stella Chiaro.’
‘Australian and Italian?’ His brow furrowed.
‘No.’ Marcella grinned. ‘Australian-born with Italian blood.’ She gestured to Stella. ‘And Bolognese.’
‘Is there a difference between being Italian and Bolognese?’ he asked.
Stella found her voice, and nodded. ‘You will soon become intimately aware of the differences. There are many.’
Vincent laughed and threw his hands up. ‘I’m ready to learn.’
‘Vincent, as the resident chef of the apartment, can I offer you acaffé?’
His torso seemed to give way under the weight of the prospect. ‘Yes. Please, yes. I’m still so jet lagged.’
‘Un espresso italiano.’ She rose from her chair and made her way to the kitchen. ‘Stella?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Any chance of a filtered coffee? Or better, an instant?’ Vincent asked. ‘Do you have any of that? In a really large mug? With sweetener? If not, anamericanowill do.’ He winked at Stella and she stifled a giggle, buoyed by his cheeky sense of humour.
Handsome and quick-witted.
Marcella took the bait and reappeared by the kitchen doorframe, moka in hand. ‘We already have oneAmericanounder this roof. That’s enough!In questa casa, solo caffé italiano!’
