Page 10 of The Ruin I Chose

Then I added under my breath,

“But I also like losing it when I choose to.”

The words tasted dangerous as I said them aloud. The wine softened something in me—made me bolder than I usually am.

“Surrender,” I said lightly. “Take strangers to dinner. Let the night choose.”

I gestured to him, smiling. The corners of his lips twitched and something in his eyes shifted. Like he wanted to know more about me. More of me. I could feel it—his curiosity curling around my skin like smoke.

“I like that you eat,” he said, breaking my thoughts.

I don’t think he intended it to slip out.

“Huh?” I paused with the bread halfway to my mouth.

Was he insulting me?

“Don’t get me wrong. Most women I know are terrified of carbs.”

I snorted. “How do people live without bread?”

I waved the piece in the air.

“Well then,” I said lightly, “you probably think I eat like a hog.”

“No,” he said. “I think you eat like someone who enjoys life.”

Then, quieter: “That’s rare.”

Heat flushed the back of my neck. Maybe from the wine. Maybe from the way he said rare. I leaned in—just slightly—my blouse shifting.

“If only I had a local tour guide,” I teased. “Someone who knows the real Italy.”

My pulse quickened. I wanted to see how far I could push him, what he’d do with the invitation. And part of me worried I was crossing a line I couldn’t retreat from.

His eyes darkened just a shade, like I had provoked something in him. His gaze dropped to my lips then my parted blouse, then back to my eyes, slowly. As though he was undressing me with his eyes alone. My nipples tightened painfully. The air between us changed. It wasn’t flirtation anymore. It was heavier, hungrier.

I felt my pulse in places I hadn’t in years. My thighs pressed together under the table. He didn’t look away. Not even for a second. The silence between us felt loud. Then he spoke.

“Be careful what you ask for,” he said, with that same husky tone.

His voice entered me like a touch—deep, resonant, settling between my legs and the hollow under my ribs.

It sounded like a challenge, a door I hadn’t realised I was standing in front of. His words were a blend of a warning and an invitation. My pulse spiked, betraying my careful reasoning.

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the wetness between my legs and how much I wanted him to know.

Then he scanned my itinerary, impressed. But I didn’t explain the handwritten notes in the margins. Or the circled dates. Or the one city I hadn’t told anyone I was visiting.

“Sicily?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“You might laugh,” I said.

“Try me.”

“Well… I’ve been intrigued ever since I read The Godfather. You know, that kind of thing. The legacy. The silence. The danger beneath the charm.”

I swirled my wine, watching the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes.