Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
That last part keeps replaying in my head.
Did he teach me self-defense because I accidentally revealed my plan when I let my emotions speak for me? Or was it something else?
My gut is telling me it is the latter, but I’m still cautious.
It seems like more, but wasn’t that Matteo’s point only days ago?
Wanting something you can’t have is a dangerous game.
As the wind rushes past us, I re-secure my grip around Matteo’s waist. He doesn’t react, but his breathing subtly shifts. It’s the same hooked breath he did when I walked out of the changing room wearing clothes that fit me like a second skin.
There are sides of him I don’t think anyone else has seen, sides he doesn’t willingly show.
He probably doesn’t even realize he’s revealing them to me.
Instead of scaring me, the thought blooms warm recklessness in my chest.
As the Caruso compound gates appear, my stomach tightens. The closer we get, the heavier the tension becomes. Humidity and static, which always arrive before a storm, make the air feel thick.
Matteo must feel it too. His shoulders tense up as his eyes connect with mine through the mirror attached to his bike. We’re standing on the edge of something extremely dangerous, but instead of inching back, we keep walking forward.
He parks the bike, and I slide off. My legs shake for reasons unrelated to the speed of the ride. Matteo takes off his helmet, then runs a hand through his hair. The visual of his mussed hair is breath-stealing. It reminds me of how it looked after I ran my fingers through it while he ate me.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but I’m saved when a small hand slips into mine. Camille smiles up at me, tugging insistently, and I finally breathe out the breath I’m holding.
“I think someone wants to color,” I tell Matteo, grateful for the excuse to step away from the tension threatening to swallow me whole. I need to think this through ahead of committing an irreversible error. “Shall we meet up for dinner?”
Clearly as desperate for time to think as I am, Matteo nods.
“I’ll meet you in the dining room at seven.”
When I nod, his eyes linger on me a moment too long before he turns away.
A minute later, Camille guides me down the long hallway toward her room. She’s vibrating with excitement, and I can’t help but smile.
Her room is bright and colorful, filled with drawings taped to the walls and stuffed animals arranged in neat rows. It must be her playroom because there’s no bed in sight.
As I admire the pretty dresses hanging on a freestanding rack, she rushes to her desk to rummage through the drawer. She returns with a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper and presses it into my hands, her eyes shining.
“For me?” I ask, fanning my hand across my chest, shocked about a second gift in one day.
Bouncing on her toes, she nods.
Under her mother’s watchful eye, who stands in the doorway, I carefully unwrap my gift. Inside is a sketchpad and a box of colored pencils.
My throat tightens. “Camille… this is so sweet.” I crouch down to her level. “Thank you. Did you want to draw now? I have time.”
Her eyes shoot to Lucia. Her father isn’t here to translate, but Lucia has no issues deciphering the disappointment on her face.
“She’d love to draw with you, but she has dance class soon. We were on our way out when she spotted you, and she couldn’t wait a second longer to give you the gift she purchased for you.”
I smile at Lucia in thanks for the translation before I return my attention to Camille. “Oh… that’s why you’re wearing a tutu? I thought you were just wearing it because it’s super pretty. I’d wear it all the time if I had a tutu that nice.”
Lucia’s balled hand shoots up to brace her chest when Camille giggles softly before she twirls on the spot to fan out her tutu. I hardly know the little girl standing before me, but I’m certain every giggle she gives is a treasure worth hoarding.
As Lucia gathers Camille’s dance bag from a room next to her playroom, I hug her to thank her for the gift before following them out. Sketchpad tucked under my arm, I wave them goodbye from the foyer before climbing the stairwell that leads to the west wing of the mansion.
The hallway is quiet as I walk back toward my room, but the earlier tension still buzzes under my skin. It doubles the length of my strides and makes my fatigue nonexistent.
I don’t think I have it in me not to throw myself at Matteo if he does one more kind thing today.
I’m a mere woman, not a saint.
Halfway to our room, voices reach my ears. I freeze. Not intentionally, more instinctively, like my body knows something important is about to happen before my mind catches up.