8. Dante
DANTE
“How long will you be out of town?”
“Couple weeks,” Elio answers, packing a briefcase with cash.
My shoulders stiffen. “And you want me to stay here?”
“Yes. With Samantha. Protect her.”
Of course. That’s my job, isn’t it? Protecting her. Not watching her with daggers in my eyes as she skinny dips with some frat boy asshole.
“I’ll always protect her.” I mean that. I’ll never let anything happen to Samantha, and not just because she’s my best friend’s daughter.
Because I can’t deny to myself anymore that I’m in love with her.
Head over heels.
And it’s unfortunate, because she’s the one woman I can never truly have.
“No shipments coming in?”
“Nothing Ricardo can’t handle.”
I nod sharply. Ricardo has really stepped up since Samantha’s incident, I have to admit.
“There’s plenty of food and entertainment. It won’t be so bad.” He claps me on the shoulder as he walks toward the front door. “It’s just a glorified babysitting job.”
Babysitting. Right. How hard can it be?
I resist the urge to hole up in my room, knowing how crafty Samantha can be. She nearly slipped away from me the night of the party.
Not that I’ll ever let her know how close she was to freedom.
I camp out downstairs on the sectional couch, flipping on some reality television show on in the background, one of those competition ones. It takes a couple hours for Samantha to traipse downstairs in a too-tight shift dress that hugs all her curves and barely covers her ass.
Jesus fucking Christ. She’s going to be the death of me.
I don’t look at her.
“Don’t tell me you like this show.”
“It’s not bad.”
I don’t have strong feelings about it one way or the other, but at least this makes conversation while I’m fighting the urge to stare at her ass.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you as a reality tv show watcher.”
“I don’t watch much television. Don’t own one.”
She looks at me, dark eyes widening. “You don’t? It’s the twenty-first century, you know.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Make some more old jokes.”
“Over the hill.”
“Way over.” I pause, glancing at her. “It’s all downhill after twenty-five. You’ll see.”
She grins. “Well, I’ve got eight months to live it up, then.”
I snort out a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”
“I usually watch dramas,” she admits.
“Oh, those really melodramatic ones?”
She chuckles.”Yeah. I like it when their lives are more dramatic than mine. Makes me feel better, you know?”
I tilt my head. “Not exactly.”
She lets out a breath. “You know, like watching someone be more messy than you makes you feel better about your own messy life.”
“Do you have a messy life?”
She glares at me. “What do you think?”
I go quiet. She shifts on the couch, curling her thick legs up under her. My eye travels the line of her thigh, the curve of her ass.
Fuck.
“You could wear some clothes that fit, every once in a while.” The words come out before I can stop them.
She turns to me, smirking. “You don’t like this dress?”
“It’s not about liking it.”
“Then what is it about, Mr. Bianchi?”
“You’re driving me crazy,” I say in a low tone.
“There are no cameras inside the living room,” she says calmly, easily, like she’s telling me the weather.
My mouth goes dry. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She shrugs. “Just a comment. Papa has them set up in the foyer, outside, but he thinks we need our privacy inside. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I guess so.”
Samantha moves on the couch so swiftly that my hands are on her hips as soon as she starts to straddle me. “Samantha. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She slowly wraps her arms around my neck and leans down to press her forehead against mine. I blow out a harsh breath.
“Don’t.” I say again, more firmly, and pick her up by her hips, physically moving her off me before my dick can stand at attention.
She huffs. “You’re no fun.”
“Watch the show.” My cheeks are burning as I try to focus on the narrative.
We watch for a few minutes longer and then Samantha whines. “I’m hungry. What are we having for lunch?”
“Ella’s making something. Be patient.”
She sits up slightly, still too close to me. “Can we order pizza for dinner?”
I chuckle. “You really are like a kid sometimes.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I like pizza.”
“With extra tomatoes.”
“Extra extra tomatoes,” she pipes up, grinning.
Ella brings out our lunch—grilled cheese and a chunky tomato basil soup. We eat in relative silence, her giggling at something on the show every once in a while.
It feels nice, being with her like this. Normal. If I can stop thinking with my dick, maybe the next two weeks won’t be so bad.
She disappears into her room for a few hours, and I’m finally able to breathe, reading another paperback while she does… whatever she’s doing. Probably talking to her heathen friends. Sofia. And Reese.
God, I hate Reese. With his long limbs and easy grin. I know he wants Samantha. I can practically smell it on him.
I can’t even expressly blame him. He’s a redblooded American male, and she… well, she’s built like that. I can still hate him, though, for being close to her. Being young enough, uncomplicated enough.
“Who’s winning?” she asks, appearing at the top of the stairs.
I glance over at her and then back at the television, like her pretty face doesn’t make my heart skip a beat. “Felicia.”
“Not Felicia,” she gasps, hurrying down the stairs to watch.
I can’t help smiling at her. We order pizza and she eats three large slices before starting to doze off on my shoulder as the reality tv show marathon goes on.
Her head bobs against my shoulder and I shift to get up, scooping her up in my arms. She rests her head on my shoulder again, wrapping her thick legs around me.
I grunt softly as I carry her up the stairs.
“Don’t you dare say I’m heavy.”
“Light as a feather.”
“I wanted to see the end.”
“There’s two hours til the end. You’ll never make it.” I deposit her on the floor in front of her room and she pouts up at me, her hair slightly mussed from sleep. She’s fucking beautiful, and looking down into her amber-brown eyes I can almost forget who she is.
Who I am.
“Stay with me until I fall back asleep?”
“Samantha…”
“I’m serious.” She thins her lips in a hard line. “I get these… nightmares. Ever since the shooting.”
I soften, folding like a fucking lawn chair. “Alright. I”ll stay.”
She happily crawls onto the bed, flashing her lace white panties at me. My jaw tightens.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and she puts her arms around my waist, pressing her face to my back.
“Hold me? Just for a while?”
I shift into the bed, leaning up against the headboard. She puts her head on my chest, one arm around my waist. “Get some rest.”
She yawns. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
“Plotting to make me crazy every day has to be tiring.”
She snickers at that, her breath getting quieter. Slower. She’s asleep within a few minutes. I watch her eyelashes fan across her cheekbones, her mouth parted.
I’m royally fucked, aren’t I?