I couldn’t believe Fabio had touched himself thinking about me, bought me a bra and I actually wore it, and he ogled me in it—and so did Fletcher. Eeew.
I couldn’t believe Fabio told Fletcher he could save gas money if he rode with us.
I couldn’t believe Fletcher, after our conversation this morning, had the nerve to come to pick me up without an invitation. I literally told him I’d rather be burned alive. That intrusive asshole. Unless…he was only here to make sure I took the fabulous bait named Zappa, and this whole exchange between them was rehearsed.
I couldn’t believe I was still letting Fabio hold my hand.
My whole body flustered as if I’d just become aware a total stranger was touching me. The second Fabio opened the passenger seat door for me—he really was chivalrous—I withdrew my hand fast before he’d do something crazy like kissing it again or any of his unexpected, fake romantic gestures—he massaged my fingers for God’s sake and kissed each one of my fingertip. What was next? Suck on them like they were my phantom dicks?
“Suca, faccia da culo,” he mumbled as he climbed into the car and shut his door.
I blinked. “Suck my cock, ass face?”
His head jerked toward me, his hand frozen on the key not yet in ignition. “That wasn’t meant for you. How did you…? You speak Italian?”
“I figured it wasn’t meant for me, and yes, I do.”
“Noted. Will be more careful with what I say.” He looked at me suspiciously. “Where did you learn it, though?”
I took a deep breath, holding on to the walls I’d built around my soul so I wouldn’t crack at the memory. “Jack loved Italy. We’d visited once, and he always talked about moving there, so we learned the language together.”
A moment of silence passed between us. His usual cocky expression that seemed to be perturbed by Fletcher changed into something softer, sadder. I glanced up, a trick I’d learned to stop the tears before they’d come, and then I looked through the window at Fletcher stepping out of the building. “I must agree Fletcher’s face has that vibe you described.”
“Right? Like who the fuck does he think he is, showing up like that? No means no, stronzo.” He started the car. “I’m glad I was here. Imagine if you were alone, and he surprised you like that?” His hand squeezed the steering wheel as he drove. “Anyway, I’m sorry for getting worked up. That was unprofessional.”
He did sound genuinely worked up. He looked truly surprised, too, when he learned I spoke Italian. As if he swore in a foreign language on purpose so I wouldn’t understand he was insulting Fletcher? As if Fletcher hadn’t filled him in about that detail so my fake date would put that act together?
Was the stripper slash escort slash spy that much of a smart actor? Or was he just a stripper that came looking for his thongs after a real laundry mix-up?
There was only one way to find out. It nestled inside my purse. All I needed to do to discover the truth was to find a way to put the bug on his suit without drawing attention or suspicion.
A way that involved touching that suit. Touching him.
My throat bobbed with a swallow. I thought it was going to be easy. Zoey made it sound like it was.Just pretend to remove a thread off his jacket while he’s sitting next to you in the back seat and stick the bug.
Except we were in his car, not in the ride I’d ordered, and he was driving. And with Fletcher’s unpleasant surprise, I didn’t even have time to get the bug out of my purse.
Except I didn’t anticipate how nervous I’d be around him, how nervous the simplest of his meaningless touches would make me.
“Are you okay?” He glanced at me between gear shifts. “You look…tense.”
Shit. Was he on to me? I stared at my purse and sighed. Stealth wasn’t my thing. Operation Bug the Spy would have to wait until we arrived.
“Gabriella?”
“I’m fine.” The pitch of my voice went a lot higher than necessary. “And just call me Gabi like everybody else.”
“But I’m supposed to be special.” He winked. “Gabriella.”
He rolled my name in that accent again, and the ridiculous heat that attacked my face and between my legs revisited. “Faccia da culo.”
A cackle burst out of him. “C’mon. Give me a good reason why you don’t want me to call you that.”
“Because it—”does strange things to my body for no logical reason whatsoever? Things that should no longer happen because of you or anybody else?
“You know what I think?”
“I don’t want to know.”
