4. Antonio
Antonio
“Good morning, Your Royal Grumpiness,” Mindy Espinoza says sweetly as we enter Remi’s office one morning. She winks at me. “Hi, Antonio.”
I wink back. She is a cheeky one, and I fecking love it.
Seven years ago Mindy had a one-night stand with my boss and then ghosted him.
Even with my vast contacts, we were unable to locate this mystery woman—who my boss was obsessed with—but when Remi recently returned to the U.S.
to take over as CEO of Hale Cosmetics, there she was in his office. As his executive assistant.
Long story short, he got angry and tried to fire her, and she refused to leave, and now they’re in some kind of verbal battle of wills every minute of every day. Watching it happen in real time is the best entertainment I’ve had in years.
Except for that evening with Ophelia last week. I’ve never had that much fun with a woman. It was unexpected, to say the least.
A vibration from my phone distracts me as I sit down across from my boss, and when I see who’s calling, I shoot up like I sat on a giant spring. Ophelia Hale.
I have her contact information in my phone in case there’s ever an emergency with Remington, but I don’t recall a time when she’s ever called me before.
“Everything okay?” he asks, looking concerned, and I school my features.
For some reason, I don’t want him to know this is his mother calling.
Nothing inappropriate happened with Ophelia, but I can’t deny there was an underlying simmer between the two of us.
I didn’t miss her eyes on my thick body and bare, tatted forearms, and I’m sure she noticed my eyes on her as well, though I did my best not to be blatant about it.
“Yes, everything is fine. I’ll just take this out here so you can get to work,” I say, heading for the door we’d just entered. I swipe on the screen and say, “Good morning. Just give me a moment to get somewhere I can talk.”
“Okay, Antonio,” comes her soft reply, and goddamn, she even sounds beautiful with her fluid southern drawl.
I stride swiftly down the corridor until I find a small janitor’s closet and step inside. “Ophelia, are you still there?”
“I am. Were you with Remi?”
“Aye, but now I’m in a broom cupboard, and I have no idea why.”
Her laugh is life-affirming. “Oh my. That makes this feel so clandestine.” There’s a hint of flirtiness in her tone that instantly shoots straight to my groin. I lean back against the door and adjust my thickening cock.
“It’s like I’m sneaking around behind my parents’ backs to talk to my crush on the phone,” I admit, and then instantly kick myself. Did I really just say “crush” like I’m a fecking sixteen-year old?
But the playfulness in Ophelia’s voice brushes away any concerns. “Do you have a crush on me, Antonio?”
“I’m a man, Ophelia. I’d have to be dead or blind to not be attracted to you.” Yep, I went there. I heard the tease in her tone, and I goddamn well went there.
“That’s good to know. And for the record, the feeling is mutual.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I did not expect that. “We’ll just file that under things I’ll remember until my dying day,” I reply, earning another of her laughs.
“Now that we’ve discussed our mutual admiration, I wanted to let you know I had your suit and shirt dry cleaned.”
The high I’d been riding on falls a couple levels. She’s only calling about my suit. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”
“I could send it with Remi,” she suggests, and my shoulders slump in disappointment. “Or…”
That two-letter work has me perking right up. “Or what?”
“Or I have some chicken breasts and thighs marinating, and I was planning to make an Italian braised chicken dish tonight.” Her voice is slightly more hesitant now.
“If you wanted to come pick up your suit from my house, I thought maybe you would want to stay for dinner. You know, since you’ll be here anyway. ”
“I’ll be there. Just tell me what time.” I don’t give a shite if I sound overeager. Ophelia Hale just invited me to dinner, and I’m giddy as a damn schoolboy.
***
She opens the front door, and I have to press my feet hard against the porch to keep from falling back a few steps. Ophelia blows me away with her beauty, even dressed casually in a lavender blouse and slim-fitting jeans.
“Antonio,” she says brightly as if she’s as happy to see me as I am to see her.
“Evenin’, Ophelia.”
Her eyes drop to the item in my right hand, and she beams. “You brought me orchids?”
“It seems I heard somewhere that they’re your favorites.” I hand them over, and she dips her nose to smell them.
“They are. Thank you.” She steps back, and I enter her foyer, feeling the warmth and comfort of her home surround me.
“I brought a pinot grigio to go with the chicken,” I tell her, holding up the bottle with my left hand.
“Perfect,” she says, waving me toward the kitchen where the scent of rosemary greets me. I place the wine on the countertop as she locates a vase for the flowers, arranging them beautifully with little effort.
“Would you like to taste the wine to see if you like it?” I ask, and she picks up the bottle, inspecting it.
Surprise registers when she lifts her sparkling brown eyes to mine. “That’s not necessary. This is one of my favorites. Did Remi tell you that too?”
I chuckle. “No. This brand is actually one of my favorites as well. Now the flowers? I completely stole that information from him. I remember overhearing when he ordered orchids for your birthday last year.”
A faint rosy shade floods her cheeks. “That was sweet of you to remember.” She hands over the bottle. “Would you mind opening that while I take the flowers to the dining room?”
I do, and she returns a moment later, taking two glasses from the clear cabinet beside the sink.
A few minutes later, we’re seated beside each other on one end of the long dining table. The sky-blue orchids pop against the dark wood furnishings, and two long tapered candles add a romantic ambience to the room. Did she do that on purpose?
I do my best not to shovel chicken and rosemary roasted vegetables into my mouth like an animal. “This is absolutely delicious,” I say, politely cutting a reasonably sized bite and eating it from my fork. “You’re a fantastic cook, Ophelia.”
She smiles, obviously pleased with the praise.
“I learned from my maternal grandmother, who was Italian.” Taking a sip of the wine, she continues.
“My father was wealthy, so my mother hired a chef when they got married, and she rarely cooked at all. I always loved being in the kitchen though. I think a kitchen is the hub of the home.”
“Did you teach your sons? Remi seems to be a pretty good cook.”
Her face takes on that softness you see when mothers speak about their children.
“I always had my boys in the kitchen with me. Haywood hired some help when I was pregnant with the twins and until I had recovered, but once they were old enough to entertain themselves for a while, I started cooking again.”
I grin at her and point at my almost empty plate with my fork. “I’m grateful you did.”
“Helix was curious in the kitchen, always experimenting with mixing different flavors and trying them out. I knew early on he was going to be my scientist.” She places another chicken thigh and more rice onto my plate. “Phoenix, on the other hand, was pure chaos.”
A chuckle rumbles my chest. “I can see that. I bet he made quite the mess.”
Ophelia giggles delicately. “Honey, you have no idea. Remi though… he followed recipes to the letter with absolutely no deviation.”
I take a drink of my wine, the cool crispness bursting on my tongue with a hint of pear. “I’m sure it was interesting to see how their individual personalities developed as they grew older.”
“It was.” She tilts her head. “I’ve never heard you mention children.”
Chewing the bite of savory potato in my mouth, I shake my head. “I never had any. Never married either. I went straight into the military after school.”
“What did you do in the military?”
“Special forces,” I say simply. “That was my life for over a decade, so I never had much time for anything else.”
Ophelia seems to be done eating and rests her chin in one hand, watching as I dig into the new piece of tender chicken she put on my plate. “And you were raised in Ireland?”
I swallow and nod. “In a small village near Cork.”
She lifts the glass to her smooth, bare lips and takes a small drink. “That’s in the south, right?”
“It is. Have you ever been to the island?”
“I’ve been to Dublin.”
Offering an almost apologetic smile, I say, “Where I grew up was much more rural than that.”
She leans forward like she’s actually interested. “Will you tell me about it?”
And I do. I tell her about running wild with my cousins, about the festivals and music we enjoyed, about our tiny school with fewer than a hundred students. Ophelia seems entirely enamored of my stories.
“And how did you end up joining the military?”
I chuckle and set down my knife and fork.
“I wasn’t exactly the academic type, though I did enjoy reading, mostly about military history.
” Leaning back in my chair, I fold my hands over my full belly.
“I remember my grandfather telling me about his days in the Army Ranger Wing, which is the special operations unit of the Irish Defense Forces. When one of my teachers suggested the military as a career option for me, I jumped on the idea.”
Ophelia pours us both some more wine. “I bet your grandfather was proud of you.”