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“Four thirty.”
“Ungodly hour.”
He leans in, a smirk on his handsome face. “The devil never sleeps.”
When he doesn’t pull back but tilts his head as if he might kiss me, I cover my mouth. “I can’t make out right now,” I speak from behind my hand.
He chuckles. “Who said anything about making out?”
I blush. “Nobody said it, but I’m saying I can’t.”
Gaze down, he locks his cuff link. “Out of curiosity, why not?”
“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
Corrado laughs on the way to the door. “Have a nice day at work.” At the door, he pauses. “And Michela, you already brushed your teeth.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I slap my forehead. “I forgot because General Corrado is running my morning.”
He laughs. “Better salute, then.”
I salute and expect him to salute back or keep laughing, but he stands there staring at me, making me pause and take in the moments we shared. Warmth spreads through my chest, and I swallow, knowing what that is. Hope. Happiness, maybe. A bit of both.
I wave goodbye to him.
Corrado’s cologne lingers in the air long after he leaves, and I inhale lungfuls of the scent as I drink my coffee while taking in my surroundings. The lavish furniture and a billion-dollar view make me squeal in delight, but the joy is squashed almost immediately when my brain supplies the image of my mom shaking in the corner of some bare four-by-four room that looks more like my brother’s jail cell than a bedroom in a fancy rehab place.
The patients aren’t allowed phones, and the people who picked her up said they’d call me when I could talk to her or visit. Although rehab is the best thing for her now, I miss her, and I worry about her. Even if I wanted to call now, the time on my new phone tells me it’s way too early to call anyone, even a place with twenty-four-hour staff.
Yet, I want to try.
When I open the phone, the screen shows many icons I’ve never used, and I better not press even a single one or I’ll spend the day on the sofa exploring them all. But the red alert on the unread message glares at me. Probably a welcome from the phone company, so that’s safe to open and read quickly.
I press it and see that it’s from a contact that’s labeled itself as HUSBAND.
In all caps.
I chuckle and open the message. Corrado sent me a picture of me sleeping in the bed in the spare bedroom.
Under the image, it reads:
The locks can’t stop me.
“Oh my God,” I mumble, then cover my mouth before I utter something inappropriate and wrong like that’s hot. Corrado watching me sleep should creep me out, but it makes my body burn since it feels like he watches over me. He cares about me, and at the same time, he’s using me for whatever purpose he needs me to fulfill.
Nothing wrong with benefiting from one another while in agreement to do so.
Not sure where the sexual tension between us fits, but sleeping with Corrado would change our relationship. At least for me. For him, it would be just sex, like a shot of tequila at sunset. Quick and dirty, only good while it lasts.
The cursor blinks in the space where I can type my reply, and I wonder if I should message him back.
The phone rings.
I jump, fumble with the phone, and make the save right before it hits the marble floor.
I pick up. “Hello.”
On the other end is a woman asking for Michela Mancini.
