Page 52

“Lucia!”

Marco’s gaze flicks to mine before dropping to my phone, but he hands me my boarding pass without pressing. As we walk in silence toward the gate, the weight of his unspoken question hangs over us like an anvil.

It continues to hang over us throughout our nine-hour flight, which I survive in the same manner that I survive my overnight shifts. I lean into my neck pillow, pull on my noise-canceling headphones, and listen to a downloaded medical journal. The information is dense enough to distract me from the well-fitted shirt stretching across Marco’s broad chest. He reads an Italian newspaper in a pose that draws glances from several women in our row.

We arrive at the Naples International Airport and disembark without saying much to each other. Marco gets us a silver sedan that drives us up the hills to the villa overlooking the Bay of Naples.

The place looks like a breathtaking ad from a travel magazine, with perfect scenery. The terracotta floors are worn smooth, the limestone walls have absorbed a century of Mediterranean light, and long windows frame the bay like a painting someone has decided to live inside.

I walk to the open window, inhaling the salt-laced air. After New York’s exhaust, breathing here feels almost offensive in its loveliness.

The living room is a generous size, and as expected, the bedroom has only one bed. The enormous mattress arranged with white linens is positioned directly in front of a window that frames the Bay of Naples like a postcard.

I turn to Marco, who’s leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. I trail a finger along the wooden post, curling my lips into a teasing smile. “Couldn’t find it in your heart to request two beds, hm?”

He shrugs, a dangerous spark in his eyes. “One bed is more convincing for the cover. We’re supposed to be madly in love, Dottoressa. Remember?”

“I thought that was only for when we’re in public.” I lift an eyebrow, taking a slow step toward him. “Are we going to need to play lovers inside the house as well?”

Marco sticks his tongue in his cheek, his gaze dropping to my lips for half-a-second before returning to my eyes. “We don’t know what might happen. But I’ll take the couch if it makes you more comfortable.” He turns around immediately and starts walking away.

“You don’t need to,” I call after him, rolling my eyes, slightly irritated at him for killing the teasing vibe. To give myself a distraction, I toss my suitcase on the bed and begin to unpack.

Later, he suggests cooking dinner. He insists that couples who travel together tend to cook together, that couples who cook together demonstrate domestic familiarity, and that couples with domestic familiarity are naturally less suspicious.

I follow him into the kitchen, not mentioning how catastrophically bad I am at cooking. We’re making a simple cacio e pepe, and I prove my incompetence within minutes by dumping the dry pasta into a pot of water that hasn’t come close to a boil, reaching for a jar of pre-grated cheese I found in the cupboard, and then grabbing a spoon to stir.

He shakes his head. “You’re ruining it.”

“I’m a surgeon, not a chef.”

He plucks the wooden spoon from my hand like he’s removing a scalpel from an unsteady resident. Then, he starts to teach me.

“Increase the heat. Salt first, then the pasta.”

I hang at his elbow as he breaks down each step, but my mind is more entranced by hearing his soft baritone and watching the homey, husband-like version of Marco Santori.

There are just so many layers to this man, and all of them leave me wanting him. Our eyes meet for a second, and he raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question.

To ignore the rapidly climbing heat inside me and the matching desire to ask him to kiss me or do even more, I shift toward the window overlooking the bay, pretending that I’m studying the sunset until he announces that the food is ready.

The pasta is perfect, and the good meal gets even better when Marco conjures up a bottle of wine and pours out two glasses. He leads the way to the terrace, where we both settle under the golden Italian twilight while sipping our wine.

A voice in my mind whispers that it’s unfortunate that this romantic scene is just a facade. It’d have been perfect for a honeymoon.

Get a grip on yourself and your raging horniness, Lucia.

I focus on the sky, on the wine…on everything but him as we watch the sun slip lower over the water. Then he suddenly drapes an arm across the back of my chair, and my pulse jumps as I fix my eyes on nothing over the bay, trying to keep the words in until I can’t any longer.

“Have you ever thought about this?”

His arm falls from the back of my chair and settles around my shoulder.

“Thought about what?”

“This.” I gesture between us. “About whether it’s…real.”

He’s quiet for a beat before asking a question of his own in an even tone. “What do you think it is?”