Page 146 of Claimed At First Sight

“And you’ve refused to answer three times.”

I suppress a smile. “Correct.”

She huffs and turns back toward the window. “That’s unreasonable.”

A few loose strands of dark hair slide across her cheek, and I resist the urge to reach over and tuck them behind her ear.

“Don’t you like surprises?”

“I love surprises.” Her voice turns sugar-sweet. “As long as they don’t come with a six-heir requirement.”

“You make it sound like an unreasonable number.”

Mia stares at me, eyebrows raised.

“Maximo, that’s because it is an unreasonable number.”

Hearing my name from her still has an absurd effect on me.

“Agree to disagree. And six is merely a starting point.”

Now she gapes at me, her mouth hanging open for a second.

“Good to know I’m being courted by a man trying to populate a small village.”

A laugh escapes me. “It would be a very successful village.”

Mia tries to appear unimpressed, but the corners of her mouth lift anyway.

“I think you should research cloning yourself instead.”

“Hmm. That would be more predictable than offspring with minds of their own, but far less satisfying to produce.”

A faint flush creeps into her cheeks before she fixes her focus on the passing scenery. A smile tugs at my mouth; she understands the innuendo.

Italian flags begin appearing on the lampposts and a turn later, we reach Taylor Street.

Despite being only a few miles from downtown, it feels like another world. The pace is slower, the buildings older, and the Italian influence impossible to miss.

When Philip pulls to the curb, Mia perks up, her gaze sweeping over the storefronts.

A bakery occupies one corner. An Italian grocer another. Several storefronts display signs in Italian. Further down the street, a restaurant glows warmly behind fogged windows, its late lunch crowd visible through the glass.

“What is this place?” she asks.

I step out of the SUV and round the car while Philip opens her door. Snow crunches beneath my shoes as I hold out my hand to help her from the car.

She eyes it suspiciously, as though I might be concealing a trap inside my gloves. After a brief hesitation, she slips her hand into mine and slides out of the backseat.

“This is Chicago’s Little Italy,” I tell her as we step onto the sidewalk.

She takes in the long street. “I didn’t know there was one here.”

Her gaze shifts to the security detail from the second vehicle, already spreading out through the area with practiced discretion.

“Do we really need all of them?” she asks.

“Yes.” I will never compromise on her security.