Page 60 of Sasha’s Secret

“Like? ‘Like’ doesn’t even begin to do this justice. I thought the sauce on its own was delicious, but with the pasta, it’s unbelievable.”

Rocco reined in the urge to fist-pump. All those cooking lessons with his mother and Nonna had been leading up to this moment—he offered them his silent thanks for their patience and persistence. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

At the end of her meal, Sasha sat back and gave a deep sigh of contentment. “I am going to have to run twice as far tomorrow, but it will be worth it. That was incredible. Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed him. “Am I supposed to feel like I need a nap now?”

“Maybe that has more to do with the length of your working day than Nonna’s pasta.” Rocco gathered up the used crockery. “You go and sit down. I’ll be right behind you, and then I can bore you to sleep with my day.”

“Can I use you as a pillow?”

“Any time.”

Rocco stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, for once not bothered about leaving them until the morning. If Sasha needed to nap, he didn't want the noise keeping her awake. She hadn’t taken her half-full beer bottle with her, so he picked it up along with his, and went to join her on the couch.

How he came to be lying full-length on it with Sasha lying mostly on top of him, Rocco wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t complaining—although he might if she wriggled like that again.

“Are you comfortable enough now?”

“Uh-huh. So tell me about your day.”

Her hand was resting on his chest. Rocco covered it with his. “Nick’s friend called. He’s coming over on Friday.”

“Do you know anything about him? Like his name, what he does for a living?”

People who were fading fast tended to mumble like that. Maybe he should have suggested the bed instead. “His name’s Keane Bryson, and I’m pretty sure he’s a Tier 1 operator.”

A gentle snore came from the left side of his chest. She probably hadn’t even heard him, but it didn't matter—she’d know soon enough. With slow, cautious movements, he pushed the cushion to a better position under his head and, resigned to the fact he wasn’t going to be able to move for a while, settled in for the duration. He could always carry her to bed later.

* * *

For the first time ever, Linzi had almost succeeded in reducing Sasha to tears.

No, not tears. More like justifiable homicide, even though this was her job and she was paid handsomely to do it.

To be fair, it probably wasn’t all Linzi’s fault. A sizable part of Sasha’s irritation was probably connected with the way she’d fallen asleep on top of Rocco on the couch last night and woken up in his bed—or more to the point, overslept in his bed. His side had been cold as well as vacant, and he hadn’t been in her office when she’d finally gotten her ass in gear. Her last chance of seeing him before lunch evaporated when Linzi summoned her for a spontaneous mid-morning meeting.

There was no point in denying it any longer—she was addicted to Rocco Equizi, and she was in a lousy mood because she hadn’t yet had her fix for the day. There was also the little matter of how she felt about him, whether she should tell him or not, or even if it was worth telling him, given what they shared didn’t have any kind of future.

And now she had to deal with Linzi having yet another meltdown about her outfit for the awards—the same outfit that had been ‘perfect’ just twenty-four hours earlier.

“Linzi, you look fantastic in the gown. It fits perfectly, and the designer is at the top of his game. Everyone wants to wear him, but he told you he’s only dressing you for Sunday night, remember? He wouldn’t lie about that—it would destroy his reputation.”

“But look!” Linzi screeched and pointed at her tablet. She jumped to her feet and stomped across the dining room.

Sasha slid the tablet over to her side of the table. The first thing she saw was the headline bearing the name of one of Linzi’s greatest rivals. The second was the dress she was wearing—a completely different color from the one destined for Linzi, in a vastly different style. Whatever Linzi was freaking out about, Sasha couldn’t see it.

This wasn’t the first time she’d wondered about her suitability for the role of personal assistant to a temperamental star, and she doubted it would be the last. She was thinking more and more about what else she might do, once her CIA experience was no longer relevant because Linzi was out of danger. The frequency of those thoughts might or might not have been connected with Rocco Equizi.

“Linzi, please. Come and sit down. Tell me what’s upset you, and then we can fix it.”

Linzi folded her arms and spouted. “It’s too late.”

“Not necessarily. Come and talk to me—please.”

Placating a diva having a tantrum was a lot like quieting a wild animal, and the best way to do both, as Sasha had learned from experience, was to maintain a calm demeanor and an even calmer tone.

Linzi returned to the table and sat down again. She was still frowning, and her lips were pinched together. “It’s not the dress in the picture that’s the problem. It’s the name of the designer she’s got. Third paragraph. He’s bigger than mine will ever be.”

The significance of the comment escaped Sasha, and it must have shown on her face, judging by Linzi’s next comment.