When he finishes with my hair, his hands slide lower, soap-slick palms gliding over my shoulders, down my back, across the curve of my hips. He takes his time, exploring every dip and swell of my body with reverent attention.
“Your turn,” I say when he’s finished, surprising us both with my boldness.
Taking the shampoo, I gesture for him to duck his head under the spray. He’s too tall for me to reach comfortably, but he accommodates me, bending slightly as I work the lather through his dark hair. It’s silky between my fingers, curling slightly at the ends when wet.
My hands travel down his body, memorizing the ridges and planes of him in a way I couldn’t before when urgency drove our actions. The tattoos that cover his skin tell stories I long to understand—the wolf on his ribs, the letters S.P.Q.R., the intricate designs that flow across his chest and arms like shadows given form.
“What does this mean?” I ask, tracing the letters with my fingertip.
“Senatus Populusque Romanus,” he answers. “The Senate and People of Rome. An ancient Latin phrase.”
I nod, filing away the information as I continue my exploration. By the time we step out of the shower, I feel as though I know his body better than my own—every scar, every tattoo, every place that makes his breath catch when touched.
We dry each other with plush towels, and I follow him to the bed. It’s become routine now, slipping between the sheets with him, letting him pull me against his chest. But tonight feels different. Something has shifted between us, subtle but undeniable.
“Raffaele?” I ask as we lie in the darkness, his arm a heavy weight across my waist. “What does Tesoro mean?”
His body stiffens slightly against mine. “You caught that, did you?”
“Yes. You said it earlier.”
He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he’s going to answer. Finally, his arm tightens around me. “It meanstreasure,” he admits, voice low and rough at the edges.
The words settle over me, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to address. I don’t press him on it, but I tuck the knowledge away like a precious stone found unexpectedly.
“Where were you these past two days?” I ask instead, changing the subject to safer ground. “You said you’d be back for dinner, but you were gone much longer.”
He shifts behind me, his breath warm against my neck. “Business went sideways. A shipment pickup was missed, and the supplier—Mikhail—redirected the goods. I had to negotiate to get them back.”
“What kind of negotiation?”
“The expensive kind,” he says wryly. “Two favors from Matteo and forgiving a debt his brother owed. Then he demanded I meet him personally in Mexico.”
I process this information, trying to understand his world. “Was it worth it?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “In my business, reliability is everything. Missing a pickup was already bad. Failing to recover the shipment would have been worse.”
I don’t ask what the shipment contained or why it wasn’t picked up. Instead, I turn in his arms to face him, curious now. “Well, at least you were too busy to finalize the deal with Sabrina,” I smile.
Something dark flashes in his eyes. “Not exactly.”
Oh, God. Please… no. Just no.
“I’m co-owner of the entire building now. Both the bakery and the apartment above it.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pretend he didn’t just confirm exactly what I didn’t want to hear. “I baked some cupcakes today,” I say, completely changing the subject. “I want to bake our wedding cake and figured I needed to see if I’m still any good.”
He chuckles against my neck. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. I meant to tell you so we could have them for dessert. But then you—”
“Then I ruined our dinner plans,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry about that, Piccola. Do you want me to go get them from the kitchen?”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, ignoring the way my heart just skipped a beat at that small but thoughtful offer. “But I’d like us to get married soon.”
“Are you in a rush to become Mrs. Russo?” I can hear the grin in his voice.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want to get back to the bakery.”
