Page 88 of The Strength Of A Woman

I fail, though, and reaching the next floor, I look back just as his eyes move away from me as he sets himself in motion.

A smile tickles my lips.

He looked at me.

He definitely looked at me.

I walk onto our floor and head to the bathroom.

My reflection in the mirror broadens my smile. What a difference a day makes.

A smile glows over my face.

My eyes look like stars fallen from the sky,and my lips quiver with a knowing grin as my entire body seems to have grown into a seductive weapon.

I pinch my dress at my back and pull so I can see the shape of my body, the way he imagines it, an hourglass-shaped promise for some memorable, hot nights.

My nipples push against my dress, begging to be touched.

I let the dress fall back in place and turn the water on.

Running my hands through the stream of water, I try not to think about the tension in my abdomen, the pull of sweet pain.

If that happens… My cheeks burn with a flush.

If that happens, my deepest desire will be fulfilled.

I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than I want him.

I dry my hands with a small towel and walk out of the bathroom just as two people from a nearby restaurant stride into the room, accompanied by Cosimo.

They set the table for Callum and me under Cosimo’s eyes, while I make a beeline for the terrace and let them work in silence.

My eyes move over the rooftops and the sea before I glance over my shoulder. The table for two is set inside, which is different from what he said initially.

Moments later, Cosimo is gone, and plates of food sit on the table along with a vase of roses.

An old Sicilian song plays in the background, making me travel back in time.

It’s so easy to visit an imaginary past when everything about it is so inspiring, reflecting a long-gone world.

The stairs begin to creak, and I can tell it’s him, judging by the cadence and firmness of his steps.

He enters the room with a deep line between his eyebrows.

"Something happened?” I ask, equally concerned.

He clicks his tongue.

“Not yet,” he says, draping his suit jacket over the back of a chair.

He wears his favorite waistcoat, and obviously he’s collected his jacket from downstairs.

‘Not yet’is not a good answer.

“What made you say that?” he asks with a smile, inviting me to take a seat at the table.

I flick my chin toward our dinner table as he pulls the chair for me.