“Could I bother you for a glass of water?” I ask, my mouth dry from my long, impromptu nap.
Wordlessly, he goes to retrieve a bottle from the refrigerator and hands it to me. As I drink, he goes back to work, opening all the containers, showcasing our food choices. He went a little overboard, supplying us with three different types of salads, two pasta dishes,chicken parmesan, Italian sausage, and two types of soups.
Everything looks amazing, and my stomach rumbles appreciatively.
“Please,” Sly says, gesturing at all the food. “Help yourself.” He reaches for a plate and hands it to me before picking up his.
We fall into a pleasant silence as we add to our plates—him loading up on meats and pastas, and myself reaching for the salads, and grabbing a bowl for soup.
As amazing as the rest of it looks, soup and salad sound deliciously comforting.
When we dig into our meals, my mind wanders, and I wonder where he went when he left. I want to ask, but I know it's none of my business, and I’d imagine he wouldn’t tell me, anyway. Why would he? He doesn’t owe me anything.
Suddenly I’m feeling nervous and unsure of what to ask or what to talk about. Every time I sneak a glance at him, he’s looking at me, too, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what, either.
So I say nothing, enjoying my food and the company, no matter how quiet it may be. He doesn’t seem bothered, so I take it at face value—we’re just sharing a meal.
Then why is my heart running a marathon in my chest?
When I’m finished eating, I decide the silence has stretched long enough.
“So what do?—”
But as I begin a sentence, so does he. “How did?—”
Blushing, I look down at my empty bowl, fighting a smile. “You first,” I say, peeking up at him from beneath my lashes.
He smirks, and the look sends heat through my veins. “How did you like your food, Vincenza?”
Every time he says my full name, I melt inside. I’ve always hated my name, but the way it rolls off his tongue has me wondering if maybe it’s not so bad after all.
“It was wonderful, thank you. I’ve never had a bad dish from Di Mercutio. Oh! Let me give you some money for dinner.”
I stand so I can go find my purse, and like earlier, Sly grabs my wrist. His touch makes my heart stop and my breathing go shallow from the electric tingles it sends through me.
“You will do no such thing,” he growls, tugging me backward. I stumble and spin toward him. His hand moves to splay across my hip, stabilizing me.
“Okay,” I breathe.
Sly’s still sitting on his barstool, and my hands now rest in the space between his chest and shoulders. With our faces at the same level, there’s no hiding from each other.
Desire pools low in my belly. Thisfeelsdifferent from in the past when he’s caught me and held me close. With him sitting and me standing between his open legs, his hands on my waist, it feels intimate.
It feels like a turning point.
The start of something.
And while that absolutely terrifies me, it also ignites my soul.
“Tell me why you came to me today, Vincenza. Why, of all people, you turned to me for comfort.” Sly’s voice is low, his heated stare glued to me, but his tone isn’t angry, or in any way rude. It’s curious and eager.
I’m at a crossroads now, and a decision must be made. Tell him the truth—moreof the truth. Or backpedal. There are ways I can spin this and still make it out of here with my dignity intact.
He never needs to know that I’vealwayshad an interest in him—ever since I was a little girl. He doesn’t need to know that ever since that night at the masquerade, he’s been on my mind, parading through my thoughts on a constant loop.
It would be so much easier to apologize again, leave, and act like this entire day never happened. Go about my life, avoid this part of the city, and pretend as though I don’t know what it feels like to have Sly Lucchetti’s fingertips brush my skin.
But the way he’s looking at me—the way he’s holding me. How he took me into his home to make sure I was safe…
