Page 45 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

It takes an hour to drive from the airport to our villa, and it’s the perfect day for a convertible ride. The balmy breeze sweeps over my skin, and I’m thankful I pulled my hair back instead of letting it hang loose.

I reach for the radio dial and Beau groans. “No, Brin. Not the radio. Anything else.”

“But it’s tradition!”

“My mom’s made me listen to enough cheesy retro Italian music to last me the rest of my life.”

“Please?” I give him my best puppy dog eyes, and he groans as he glances over at me.

“Only because I missed you,” he mutters as he presses the dial and tunes into my favorite station, which is in the middle of playing a cheesy retro Italian song. I sing shamelessly along to the only words I know, which are bella ciao.

Beau puts one hand on my knee. I glance over at him, relaxed, jaw unclenched, his other hand on the steering wheel. Beau’s different when he’s in Italy—lighter, more relaxed. Back in Toronto, he wields his charm like armor. Here, there’s no one to perform for, no choreography, no pretending. If another car pulls alongside us at a stop sign, he doesn’t have to shrink back in case it’s one of his friends.

We’re just us.

My heart leaps when I see the villa, with its red-tiled roof and stony walls. It’s not large, only one floor with a single bedroom, but it’s perfect for us with its expansive spa-style bathroom and even more expansive kitchen. Cypress trees stand in small clutches around the house like royal guards. In the back, there’s a little saltwater pool overlooking a small stretch of countryside before the sea. Sometimes we bicycle down the dirt path to the beach, a full picnic packed in Beau’s basket.

We could afford a bigger villa now, one closer to the water. The first time we rented this place, most of Beau’s money was tied up in his businesses, and we purposefully chose something modest. There are so many memories here, we choose to come back every time.

More details come into focus as Beau pulls the Maserati up into the drive. The wooden shutters with their cracked ivory paint, the rosemary bushes flowering by the door, the tiny, tacky replica Statue of David that, for some reason, they put next to the stone bench and birdbath. I exhale as I step out of the car.

It feels deceptively like home.

Beau wheels my suitcase inside for me. Unsurprisingly, he’s been busy, settling into the kitchen. Fresh herbs sit on the windowsill, and the bottle of wine is already opened on the counter. If I open the pantry door, I know I’ll find it full of groceries from the nearby market. It’s like I’m not walking into a rented villa, but into our real, shared kitchen.

“Did you get fresh bread, too?” I ask.

“Who do you think I am?” He points to a small brown wooden box with a curved side and I snort out a laugh.

“Apparently, you’re a guy who buys breadboxes for a villa he doesn’t even own.”

“Hey, I spend a week here every year with the best bread in the world. I’m tired of doing it without a breadbox.”

My stomach growls before I can answer, and Beau frowns. “I guess my plan to seduce you immediately will have to wait until after you eat.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, fluttering my lashes. “I thought you were so impatient.”

“Oh, I am,” he says with a wolfish grin. “I just know that cooking for you is better foreplay than anything else I could do. Besides, we have time.”

For once, we do. We’re not trying to squeeze a relationship into a few hours like we do in Toronto. Here, we have three glorious days to spend luxuriating in each other’s presence.

I should go unpack while he cooks, but I can’t resist leaning against the counter and pouring myself a glass of wine so I can watch him cook. Unsurprisingly, Beau pulls a container of fresh pasta from the refrigerator.

“Made it this morning,” he says. “I planned on saving it for dinner, but we’ll have to improvise.”

He moves to the stove, where he fills a large pot with water and sets it on a burner. “Do you want to salt the water for me, Brin?”

“So you can snipe at me for not using enough? No thanks.”

“Everybody undersalts their pasta water. It’s a crime. I’m just trying to educate you.”

“I’m a very educated woman. I can use they’re, their, and there correctly every time.”

“Braggart.” He grins as he pulls out a large saucepan, because he knows exactly what he’s doing. I won’t be able to tear my eyes away from his perfect, sexy hands while he does the work of making tomato sauce. Unscrewing the jar of olive oil, chopping the garlic, crushing the tomatoes. He’s about to turn into my own, personal hand pornographer.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “Cocky asshole,” I mutter.

“You love it.”