Chapter 22
Tessa
I’m warm all over. Borderline too hot, but in a delicious way.
It reminds me of the rush of heat that would hit me when I walked into my childhood home after playing outside on an Ohio Snow Day.
With all of my winter gear on, it felt overwhelmingly stifling, but more than welcome after the frigid air.
I wiggle my body, burrowing into the bed and relishing the warmth, when I hear a loud groan.
“Not now, Cara. Ci sentiranno.”
I freeze. It’s almost difficult to make out the words—I’ve never heard his accent this pronounced before. The only time it’s remotely close to this thick is when he’s angry with me.
Now that I’ve discovered that the origin of the inferno is the man behind me and not the sun, I attempt to scooch toward the edge of the bed. But Giovanni wraps his arm around my waist and yanks me back.
“Not yet, Cara. Don’t rush,” he sleepily mumbles, adding a little ah sound to the end of some of the words.
I take it back. The heat is stifling. A bead of sweat escapes from my hairline.
It’s already embarrassing enough that I’m spooning with Lamont’s tailor, but the fact that he’s calling me by an ex’s name is even worse.
I try to piston my hips forward, but in order to get momentum, I have to push them backwards first… right into Giovanni’s morning wood.
I will myself to immediately forget how well-endowed he feels, but I fail hard and fast. Speaking of hard and fast… no.
Gesù.
I shake the Italian out of my head, wondering how it’s already infiltrated my brain this deeply.
“Mmm. Sì,” he says, followed by a short string of drowsy Italian that sounds… Yeah, he’s definitely talking about his ex. And sex.
Sex with his ex.
And with that disturbing rhyme, I kick him in the shin and sit straight up like a vampire arising from a coffin.
“Ow,” he complains before opening his eyes to see how hot (and bothered) I am.
“Good morning, Tessa.”
His thick accent has left the room, replaced only by a barely detectable melodic rhythm that deviates from the standard American dialect. His nonchalant tone is making me feel very chalant. Does he not notice his dick standing at attention, or does he just not care?
He stands and stretches his arms above his head, causing his white t-shirt to ride up. I try not to imagine where his thick, dark happy trail leads as he looks toward the ceiling and cracks his neck.
He might not care.
But I should care, right? I can’t stop gawking, so a rapid escape is necessary.
“I’m going to use the restroom.” I quickly maneuver myself around his body towards the door, not looking back.
“What, no good morning?” he teases.
I beeline to the bathroom down the terracotta tiled hallway, choosing to ignore him, his large erection, and the fact that he called me by a random woman’s name in his sleep (twice).
I open the door and immediately splash cold water on my face.
Given my body temperature, I’m shocked the water doesn’t sizzle when it hits my skin.
Bracing both hands on the sides of the sink, I let it drip down my chin and count to ten.
After a few moments, I pluck a washcloth from the stack in the cabinet and press it to my cheeks, soaking up the remaining water.
I grab the toiletries I set next to the sink yesterday and brush my teeth and hair.
Adding some dry shampoo and covering my face in tinted sunscreen, I feel much more ready to face the day—and Giovanni.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I shuffle down the hallway in my cotton pajama shorts and tank top. I attempted a modest short sleeve and pants set around him last night, before realizing it was way too hot for pragmatism.
I slowly crack open the bedroom door and—oh my God—his shirt is off.
His back is facing me, and I allow myself to indulge for a moment.
Leaning my body against the doorframe, my gaze drags down his body.
First, to his expansive shoulders and muscular arms, then to his thick hips jutting out over the elastic of his boxers, and then I finish my eye-fuck tour at his ass.
“Am I giving you enough of a show, or should I spin around?”
Startling, I smack my head against the doorframe.
“Shit!” I yelp, attempting to rub away the soreness in my temple.
“First my shirt at the shop, now my body… You’re quite the objectifier, aren’t you? Maybe I should file a complaint with Lamont,” he muses, slowly turning around. “Get HR involved.”
Instantly averting my eyes so as to not play into his accusation, I scoff. “Oh, please.”
He hums. “Say it again.”
“Say what again?”
“‘Please.’” He winks. “You never say it to me. I could get used to it.”
I did not need the image of naked Giovanni in my mind, but now it’s there, right alongside say it again. I actively try not to notice the goosebumps decorating my arms. I can’t go back to the bathroom, so I accept defeat and shut the bedroom door behind me.
“Let’s just not talk while we get ready,” I grumble.
“Why?”
“I just need to find my clothes so I can get out of here,” I mutter, but all of a sudden everything I need in this room has grown legs. I can’t find a single sock.
“Anything I can help with?”
“No, you’ve done quite enough.” I crawl on the floor to look under the bed.
“Looking for those, by chance?”
I stand up and find Giovanni nodding toward a pair of my black panties, which somehow ended up next to his side of the bed. Must’ve happened during my middle-of-the-night heatstroke.
I blush, pick up the panties off the floor. “They were a casualty of my 2:00 a.m. rapid change into something lighter.”
“It was, hmm?” he muses, a twinkle in his eye.
My jaw drops. Where is this flirty tone coming from? And why can’t I keep up?
He pushes off the wall with his shoulder before walking toward the door. “I’ll let you get changed then.”
“And the angels rejoiced,” I reply, throwing on my clothes as soon as the door shuts behind him. After a quick tidy of the things I scattered while looking for socks, I head to the kitchen for breakfast.
“There’s cornetti and fruit on the table.” Maria gestures to a huge spread of pastries that resemble croissants filled with cream and bowls of grapes and figs. “I would’ve made cappuccini, but Gio said I’m not allowed to make your drinks anymore,” she adds with a blush.
“Giovanni!” I hiss, pinching his arm.
“Hey, that hurts.”
“Leave your poor mother alone,” I chastise, before turning to Maria. “I am so sorry for him; you can make anything for me. At any time. If you want, of course.”
“Such a sweet girl.” She clasps my hands in hers. “You know, they say that you can always tell how a man will treat you by the way he treats his mother.” She pauses and glares at Giovanni. “My nephew, Luca, the one I’ve been telling you about—he treats my sister like a queen.”
I stifle a giggle. I wish I could bring his mom back to New York.
“My sister was telling me that Luca painted the cabinets in her kitchen,” she adds pointedly, wiggling her eyebrows.
Giovanni cuts in. “I ripped out the floors in your bathroom and put new ones in five years ago. And I fixed the sink right when I got here, Mamma. And the chair.”
“Mhm, Tesoro,” Maria says, brushing him off. “Luca also bought a bird bath and set it up in the yard so my sister could enjoy the birds. And yet poor Giuseppe goes without.”
“I built the bench in the garden with my own two hands and installed new windows for you. Giuseppe doesn’t need a bath. He needs to stop eating people-food, ” Giovanni says.
Maria rolls her eyes. “Sure, sure. What I’m saying is that I will introduce the two of you, since my son clearly has issues that—”
“We’re done here.” Giovanni tugs me away from her with enough force that my ass backs up right against his upper thighs.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls me down the hallway back to our room.
“We have to go see my friend, remember? I owe him a favor, and he’s cashing it in today.”
My eyes widen. “I thought we were just going to hang out with him. What is this ‘favor’ you speak of? Like a favor favor?”
We reach the threshold of his room, and he drops my hand. “What do you mean by ‘favor favor?’ Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like a ‘bury a dead body’ favor? Because I almost died once on this trip already, Giovanni, and that’s inching near my threshold.” I fold my arms.
“Gesù, Tessa. Of course it’s not… Wait. What do you mean ‘inching near’ your threshold? Exactly how many times were you thinking you’d almost die?”
I brush a stray flyaway out of my face. “I figured being your pretend girlfriend would give me at least two solid chances of dying on this trip.”
“What?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve already reached fifty percent of my original estimate.”
He flexes his fingers and releases a heavy sigh.
“No. It isn’t a murder favor. My friend, Enzo, is a photographer.
His two models can’t make it to today’s shoot, so he called when we were in Milan to ask if we could fill in.
The campaign is for a local gelato shop, and they’re looking for real couples to market their product. ”
“Excuse me?” I squeak out. “This was not part of the deal. And we’re not even a real couple!”
He shrugs. “He doesn’t know that, and I owe him one. When I was building my portfolio, he let me tailor garments for his models.”
“Does he know I’m not a model? I have no coordination.”
Giovanni scans my body, assessing me. I don’t miss how his eyes linger in certain places: my chest, my lips, my hair.
A delicate tremor runs through me under his gaze, and my breath falters when his attention refuses to drift.
Giovanni still has the capacity to get under my skin, but lately, it’s in a way that disarms me.
After a few moments, a small smile grazes his lips. “You’ll manage.”
I rub soothing circles on my temples as I grapple with The Favor.
“So, we… we have to look in love while spoon feeding each other gelato?”
“There are worse things,” he murmurs.