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Corrado’s conversation seems to heat up, and he raises his voice, then pauses and whisper-hisses while holding the phone up to his face as if the other person can see his pissed-off expression. The man on the other end of the line barks back, and Corrado growls into the phone before disconnecting and sliding it into the back pocket of his pants.
He’s shirtless, barefoot, and his belt’s still open, and he looks fine fixing coffee, though with the amount of milk he’s pouring in, I’m starting to think the coffee isn’t for him but for me. When he adds copious amounts of sugar, I’m sure he’s fixing me a mug.
Once done, he pushes it aside and starts a new brew. Coffee drips into a small cup. Espresso. That’s for him. Yup, he throws it back as if it were tequila and then sets the cup on the counter.
A small smile plays on his lips when he picks up my mug and turns toward me.
Uh-oh.
I tiptoe around the bar so he doesn’t catch me in the act. He’s probably heading for my bedroom to give me the coffee, and I’m not there, but out here, hiding like some criminal. Or a morning stalker who watches a sexy man she happens to be married to fix her a cup of coffee.
I better figure out what to do.
A chair scrapes the floor.
Is he sitting at the table?
Hope not, or I’ll be stuck here. I turn, and there are only two ways I can go. To his bedroom, through the bathroom, and inside my room. Or outside. I could pretend I was using the guest bathroom, but he’d have noticed the light and known someone was there.
And what’s he doing sitting at the table with my coffee? It’s my coffee, isn’t it?
My phone rings. My phone that’s on the nightstand in my bedroom where I would hear it. If I were there. But I’m out here with him in the main area, and at this point, I can’t explain what I’m doing without making myself sound ridiculous.
Jesus. I just wanted to check on my chicken marsala from last night, and now I’m stuck here with my stupid morning brain that hasn’t had any coffee and, therefore can’t process anything sane to save its life.
Having no choice, I hurry and crawl over the floor and into his bedroom. Once there, I rise and sweep my long, thick hair away from my face so I can see to run through the bathroom into my bedroom, where my phone’s still ringing.
“Boo,” Corrado says from right in front of me.
I scream, jump back, trip over his shoes, and land right on his bed, bouncing off the mattress for good measure. Giving my heart a moment to settle down, I blow my hair out of my face to see Corrado standing at the edge of the mattress, a coffee cup in his hand.
I lean on my elbows and clear my throat. “Good morning.”
“Mmhm.” Corrado’s gaze rakes my body, stopping at the juncture of my thighs. My dress has ridden up and is revealing everything between my legs. Since I didn’t wear panties last night, he’s shamelessly enjoying the view.
Face burning from embarrassment, I try pressing my knees together, but a single tsk from him makes me freeze in the position I’m in as Corrado puts the cup on the nightstand.
He walks to the bathroom and locks it. “You crawled to my bedroom after all.”
I say nothing because my spying on him in the kitchen can’t be explained, and I won’t admit to it even if I think he might’ve sensed or seen me there but pretended not to. He had to. The moment I took off for his bedroom, he must’ve sprinted through my room and the bathroom to appear in front of me. He knew I was there the whole time.
Corrado locks the door that leads to the common area, trapping us in his bedroom. The blinds are still down, so it’s dark, and with him prowling like a lion around a lioness, it’s also dangerous. Dangerously sexy, the kind that makes me wet.
Corrado returns to stand in front of me, tucking his hands into his pockets. “You made me dinner last night, but when you called, you never mentioned you were cooking. You had me believing you ordered dinner or that you were taking me out to celebrate your new job. I wonder why you didn’t mention the cooking. But I won’t ask, which leaves me guessing all kinds of things, some nicer than others. Do you want to tell me why?”
Not particularly, no. For one, I can’t afford the kind of places Corrado frequents, and for two, when I got to work, Henry explained that I’m not his employee but a separate business entity that’s subletting the office, and I’ll be learning the trade from him. This means I’ll need to supply my own clients, and until then, I won’t get paid.
I’m broke, with debt piling up and bills due, and I asked if I could change the arrangement and work for him and get paid now. Henry told me Corrado would disapprove, but that he’ll hire me. Once hired, the admin staff approved my pay advance on the spot.
The generous pay advance made me smile all the way to the grocery store, where I splurged on all the finest marsala ingredients. I sang while I cooked, then cursed because I forgot to buy wine. In the middle of the meal, I stopped and went back to the store, and then I had less time to make dinner, so I rushed it and stressed out that I wouldn’t make it by eight o’clock, thinking how punctual Corrado could be when he set a deadline.
After all that, he canceled. So no, I don’t particularly want to tell him anything. I shake my head.
“Very well. Playing house with me is a dangerous game. You could get hurt.” He parts my legs and kneels on the bed, his gaze between my legs. The tip of his finger presses my clit, and I gasp.
“The body doesn’t care about the suffering of the heart. Does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
