It was a muddle, and one she couldn’t think through with her stomach drowning out her brain.
Well, she knew this much. She couldn’t leave them.
And she knew something else. That pizza was within reach, not more than an arm’s length away, and it was now screaming at her.
The girls were going to eat it anyway. So, why not join in as long as she was here?
The three of them each grabbed a slice and munched away. Damn, it was good.
“So,” Nico said in between bites. “Why did you throw your toys over your terrace? Would Thing One or Thing Two not fly kites in the house?”
More giggling.
“It isn’t Thing One or Thing Two anymore, it’s just Thing.” Beatrice climbed off her chair, grabbed the stuffed toy, and brought it back to the table to show Nico. “See. He’s lost some of his stuffing. Cat thought he was a chew toy and destroyed the other one completely. So, there’s only Thing now.”
Cat?
“I see,” Nico said as she shoved a second slice into her mouth.
That’s when she heard a voice—a man’s voice—coming from the other room.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NICO AND ROCCO
Had someone been here the entire time?
“Okay, flying monkeys, if you’ve started in on that pizza, you better have left me some. I’m coming to check, and then I’m going to throw on—”
Nico’s eyes ballooned at the sight of Rocco wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. His chest was glistening, his hair tousled, the ends shedding drops of water that slid from his sculpted shoulders down his muscular chest, descending to his chiseled abs and carving a seductive stream that didn’t escape view until slipping under that towel.
He jerked to an abrupt stop when he saw her. If he’d been wearing shoes, he would have skidded.
Nico’s mouth was full of pizza. She stared at that towel wrapped around his torso. Was it her imagination, or had it slipped a fraction of an inch? It was now hanging oh-so-precariously on his hips. Another inch and …
No sooner had she completed the thought than a wad of pizza dough caught in her throat.
Nico stood up so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor. There was something she needed to do. Hammacher Schlemmer, Schlummer or Schlepper.
What’s it called? What does it matter? Just do it. Do what?
“She’s choking!” both girls cried in unison as they scrambled off their chairs and jumped to their feet.
Before her brain could manifest another thought, she felt him behind her.
He threw his arms around her. Making a fist with one hand and clasping it tightly with the other, he placed them just below her rib cage. His face was flush with hers, his cheek pressed against hers, the stubble grazing her flesh. His breathing—rapid fire—rose and fell in waves, beating in rhythm with his heart pounding against her back.
“Please don’t let me break her ribs,” he whispered as he thrust his fist into her, drawing her body into his own.
“Harder, Uncle Rocco! Harder!” Sofia and Beatrice yelled.
Is he wearing anything underneath that towel?
“Her face is red!” Sofia wailed.
“No, it’s purple!” Beatrice screamed.
Of course he’s not wearing anything, you idiot. He just came out of the shower. Do you know anyone who wears underwear in the shower?
