Page 43 of Caesar DeLuca
Caesar steps in, shrugging off the snow that’s fallen on his shoulders. He shakes the flakes in his hair out, then runs his fingers through the sleek black strands. Even with the snowflakes in his hair and dusting his clothes, he manages to look fine. Stubble has thickened across his jawline, adding to its dimension when he clenches and scowls.
My heart skips as he enters the kitchen and pierces me with two dark blue eyes. “I went out to check on the roads. Do they always take this long to clear them?”
“The blizzard’s not officially over. They consider it a waste of time.”
“Give me the plow. I’ll clear them.”
“Restless?” I hear myself ask, a forced pleasantness about my tone. On the inside I’m really cussing myself out for last night.
“You could say that. I’m not used to loitering around.”
“You’re supposed to be focused on healing.”
“I’m fine enough. The snow’s the problem.”
I blow out a small sigh. “You really want to go. I’m sure last night didn’t help. We could try to drive into town anyway.”
“Wait a second, Ariana,” he says, tilting his head. “It seems we’re having two different conversations.”
“Let me finish this chili, then we’ll see about driving into town. They have to have a bus?—”
“You think I want to leave ’cuz of last night?”
I focus on cutting the green peppers into tinier and tinier cubes. The peppery smell tickles my nose, though I feel like sniffling for other reasons too. Caesar steps closer ’til he’s directly behind me as I chop. He reaches forward, and slowly, gently grabs hold of my hand holding the knife. I give up on chopping up the peppers altogether and let him slide the knife out of my grasp.
His other hand lands on my waist and I understand what he’s doing—he’s easing me around to face him. Bubbling pot of chili be damned.
“I had a good time last night,” he says. “The wine tasted better than I thought it would and the company was one of a kind.”
My brows quirk higher in surprise. “I was drunk, Caesar.”
“Not sure if you realize this, but drunk you is still better company than 98% of people, Ariana.”
“I’ve been assuming you thought I was a fool. I came onto you!”
His features relax slightly, his version of a humored expression. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I’d rather not revisit the train wreck.”
“Ariana,” he says, speaking my name almost in a low, raspy melody. He grabs both of my wrists to force my gaze. “Things were pretty damn mutual last night. The only reason it didn’t go further was because I held myself back. You were too drunk.”
I laugh in disbelief as more bits and pieces trickle in, then I gasp as it does. “You told me I’m your type!”
“A drunk tongue speaks a sober mind. No lies were told last night.”
Heat engulfs me on both ends. Heat from the bubbling pot of chili cooking on the stove and the heat that Caesar brings just by peering into my eyes, telling me the things he is. I find myself holding my breath as I try to blink and keep my head.
It’s just damn near impossible when standing this close. When his touch makes the rest of my body feel weak. When it’s the two of us locked into another one of our moments.
This isn’t imagination. This is very real.
Visceral.
I finally draw in a breath and tip my head so I can pretend I’m looking anywhere else. “We should be careful. I don’t need you to tell me these things.”
“Can I ask you something, Ariana? Something I have noticed about you.”
Oh Lord.
