Page 62 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Graham and Ryan stride with purpose toward the waiting SUV, just as luxe and black, but this time an Italian make. They tuck me into the back, and when Travis slides in with us, we take off again, driving through the winding hills of the Italian countryside.

It’s gorgeous, but I can hardly take it in. I’m still working through what Ryan said. Still thinking about the arrangement. Grappling with the thought of where we’re heading.

The four of us, alone in a villa together. My heart somersaults at the thought.

We drive for long enough that my head starts to loll against Ryan’s shoulder, but I wake fully when the car slows and turns onto a long driveway, eventually arriving in front of the largest, prettiest “villa” I’ve ever seen.

Like a kid, I practically press my nose to the window to take in the elaborate shrubs and flowers on either side of the road. The sunshine glittering off the still, ice-blue pool. The trees hanging with fat, bright lemons.

It’s the kind of picture of Italy you see on the front of a travel brochure. Impossibly idyllic. Impossibly sweet and grand and perfect.

“Go ahead,” Ryan leans over to whisper in my ear, and the brush of his warm breath makes me shiver. “Tell me what you think, Serena.”

Once again, I open my mouth to say something—though what, I’m not sure—but I’m stopped by the car braking, someone appearing and opening the car door for us. When I stand outside the car and turn to look, I can see tall, stone fencing. The kind that reminds you of a castle. The kind that, hopefully, will be able to keep any sort of press or other adversaries out.

“La mia villa è la tua villa!” Ryan cries, throwing his arms out and spinning around once he’s out of the car.

“I thought you said you could speak Italian,” Graham grumbles, rubbing his hand against his ear and looking generally grumpy at the change of scenery. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who stays in accommodations like this—he probably prefers a hammock on the side of a mountain, or something like that.

Then we’re heading inside, chattering wildly. There arestaffhere—gardeners and housekeepers and a woman who shakes my hand, saying something in rapid Italian that I don’t understand. Then Ryan addresses them, says something else I also don’t understand, and they trade phrases back and forth before the staff turn and disperse.

“He dismissed them for the week,” Graham murmurs. When I turn to look at him, his eyes are sweeping over me, then landing on my gaze, something heavy and wanting there. He could tell I was curious about what they were saying. And, apparently, healsospeaks Italian.

Ryan grabs a small pair of keys, points at a Vespa outside, and announces he’ll be running to the market to get somesupplies. Travis takes his bag and says he’s heading up to the office to get on a call with the team.

Before going, he stops at the base of the stairs, gives me his own meaningful look, and says, “They should be here with your clothes around five.”

That means nothing to me, since I have no idea what time it is now, but I wrap my arms around myself, remembering my ratty shorts and t-shirt, my hair pulled up into a lopsided bun. Not exactly my best look. Not exactly the look I would choose for my first jaunt into a new, startlingly beautiful country.

And then Graham and I are standing together, alone in the great, shining living room of the villa.

He sighs, drops heavily onto a couch, and looks at me with an expression I can’t decipher.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally, “if that discussion on the plane made you uncomfortable.”

In all my shock, I never answered them. Which means they don’t know that it’s the one thing I was hoping to hear.

“No,” I take a few steps toward him, stop, self-conscious of how I look, how I smell, everything that I would change about this moment. “I—I was surprised.”

“Surprised?” he tilts his head, analyzing me. I feel like I’m wildlife he’s trying to understand in its natural habitat. Or maybe I’m the gazelle about to be hunted, and I’m too dumb to realize what’s going on.

“Surprised…” I take a few more steps toward him, until my socked feet are just inches from his, “…and happy.”

“Happy.” This time, when he repeats it, a smile spreads over his face. I flush with satisfaction at having been the one to do it. “So, you’re okay with it?”

A laugh barks out of me, and I clap a hand over my mouth, shaking my head, “Well, yeah. Couldn’t you tell? When we were camping together…?”

He stares down at me, and I realize before he speaks again that he’s going to make me say it. “Couldn’t I tell what?”

My cheeks heat further. That warmth spirals down through my body, pooling between my legs. When I open my mouth, it’s my desire speaking in a bold voice, “That I wanted you to touch me.”

Graham’s jaw tightens, shifts, and after a long, painful moment, he swallows and asks, “Do you want me to touch you now, Serena?”

“Yes.”

I’m tissue paper. I could blow away in the wind. My legs might as well be shaking for how much it feels like my knees could give out. Even him looking at me like this is a physical caress.

“Then come here.”