Page 55

“When will you be ready?” I ask.

Gio doesn’t answer. He only lumbers around the kitchen at a sloth’s speed. He pours himself an orange juice. Then, like he knows I’m watching, he leans against the fridge and folds his arms, doing that arm-muscle pose again, and lazily sips from his glass.

I look anywhere but at him—my charm bracelet, my sandals—and then I pick up a flier for the hotel spa. I pretend to read it.

Does he have to walk around shirtless with his pants hung so low on his hips? How are his hip flexors so defined? Does lifting a ten-pound salami give you defined hip flexors? What does the average salami weigh?

At the thought of Gio swinging a ten-pound salami between his legs, a nervous pop of a laugh escapes my mouth. I play it off as a cough.

He eyes me suspiciously.

Just now, I decide that we need house rules.

Rule one: proper attire is required. But if I told Gio to wear a shirt, he’d know his lack of clothing affects me. Which brings me to rule two: never ogle your off-limits roommate.

Never!

I angry-flip the pages of the spa brochure, cursing myself for watching his spicy posts. Now, I can’t look at him without remembering certain scenes.

Gio licking cake batter from a beater in a sexy way. Gio flicking a cooked mussel in its open shell. Gio fingering a chopped lemon and making it squirt. Gio slicing open a freshly baked loaf of bread and spreading it like a pair of thighs before face-diving in, nose deep, to inhale the aroma.

“How’d you like the muffin?” he asks.

“What muffin?” I almost jump out of my skin at the question. I’m that tense.

With my muffin-eating denial floating between us, I focus on the spa flier. I wonder if they have the face-slapping treatment because Gio needs one of those. I flip to the next page, scanning the options. A cactus-slapping treatment might work better. That way, they can beat him with the needles.

Gio steps close. Too close.

Because I’m caught off guard, I back up until my butt nudges a bar stool. Pinned, I freeze as he stares at my eyes, my nose, my beauty mark, and then his gaze drifts to my lips.

My mouth parts, but I snap it shut, even though I want to savor him sizing me up like pizza dough. Somehow, we’ve entered a staring match, but I will not back down. I have a reputation to uphold.

I am a palm tree!

“You didn’t eat my muffin?” Gio asks again, as if I would fess up this time.

As if I would ever fess up to anything that gives him the upper hand.

“I would never eat your banana muffin,” I lie.

He chuckles darkly, swipes his fingertip over the corner of my mouth, and shows me the evidence—a smear of banana cream on his fingertip. Then, like a sexy psychopath, he sucks the cream off his own finger. A faint dimple I never noticed before indents his cheek as he smirks.

A dimple!

“Mmm.” He moans with his eyes closed, then opens them slowly. “Tastes like a lie, Sparkles. Taste like you love my banana muffin.”

My face heats to a thousand degrees.

He cranks his chin and pauses in thought before adding, “Does this count as one-upping you? Because if so, that means I’m back in your bed.”

21/

giovanni

Mullet Noogies

By the time Sophia and I are in the Jeep, she’s seething. She’s not too happy about being caught in her lie. But worse, it’s almost noon, and by her account, half the day is wasted. Adam could be long gone from our destination.