“It’s… easy, being your pretend boyfriend.”
A pause. Then, “Easy? How so?”
I search for the right words. “It’s not hard, being with you. It feels normal, Tessa.”
Nice, even.
Her tone is quieter than usual when she asks, “Normal?”
“Mhm.”
The bed moves, and I feel her body shift to the side, facing the window—away from me.
“Goodnight, Giovanni.”
I turn on my side, facing the door.
“Sleep well, Tessa.”
Chapter 22
Tessa
I’m warm all over. Borderline too hot, but in a delicious way. It reminds me of the rush of heat that would hit me when I walked into my childhood home after playing outside on an Ohio Snow Day. With all of my winter gear on, it felt overwhelmingly stifling, but more than welcome after the frigid air.
I wiggle my body, burrowing into the bed and relishing the warmth, when I hear a loud groan.
“Notnow, Cara. Ci sentiranno.”
I freeze. It’s almost difficult to make out the words—I’ve never heard his accent this pronounced before. The only time it’s remotely close to this thick is when he’s angry with me.
Now that I’ve discovered that the origin of the inferno is the man behind me and not the sun, I attempt to scooch toward the edge of the bed. But Giovanni wraps his arm around my waist and yanks me back.
“Notyet, Cara. Don’t rush,” he sleepily mumbles, adding a littleahsound to the end of some of the words.
I take it back.The heatisstifling. A bead of sweat escapes from my hairline. It’s already embarrassing enough that I’m spooning with Lamont’s tailor, but the fact that he’s calling me by an ex’s name is even worse. I try to piston my hips forward, but in order to get momentum, I have to push them backwards first… right into Giovanni’s morning wood.
I will myself to immediately forget howwell-endowedhe feels, but I fail hard and fast.Speaking of hard and fast…no.
Gesù.
I shake the Italian out of my head, wondering how it’s already infiltrated my brain this deeply.
“Mmm. Sì,” he says, followed by a short string of drowsy Italian that sounds… Yeah, he’s definitely talking about his ex. And sex.
Sex with his ex.
And with that disturbing rhyme, I kick him in the shin and sit straight up like a vampire arising from a coffin.
“Ow,” he complains before opening his eyes to see how hot (and bothered) I am.
“Good morning, Tessa.”
His thick accent has left the room, replaced only by a barely detectable melodic rhythm that deviates from the standard American dialect. His nonchalant tone is making me feelverychalant. Does he not notice his dick standing at attention, or does he just not care?
He stands and stretches his arms above his head, causing his white t-shirt to ride up. I try not to imagine where his thick, dark happy trail leads as he looks toward the ceiling and cracks his neck.
He might not care.
