Page 71 of The Deal

He’s okay …he’s home.

His brow furrows deeper as his thumbs gently sweepaway the few tears that escape. “Why are you crying?” he asks, his voice soft.

I slide my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his chest, as a wave of embarrassment washes over me. I’m not used to showing my emotions so openly.

“Amore mio,” he says, wrapping me in his arms and crushing my body to his. “Talk to me, you’re freaking me out.”

I take a deep breath and give myself a moment to pull myself together. “I just missed you,” I mumble into his shirt.

When I feel his chest vibrate with laughter, I pinch his side. “Ouch! What was that for?”

I tilt my face up to meet his. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” he lies, giving me one of his megawatt smiles, so I pinch his side again.

“That one was for not calling and letting me know you were okay.”

He skims his knuckle down the side of my face. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hectic few days. My father wouldn’t let me leave. I was lucky to get out when I did.”

My eyes narrow accusingly. “Did he lock you in your room and install bars on the window?”

He chuckles again. “Point taken. Did you really miss me?”

I lift one shoulder. “Maybe a little.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A little? I missed you more than you’d believe,bella.”

“You did?” I ask as my heart skips a beat.

Without a single word, his hands gently cradle my face, guiding me closer until his lips find mine. The depth of his searing kiss says everything. He responds with actions, not words.

I’m not sure how long we stood there, kissing like a couple of teenagers in front of his men and the pilot, but it felt like forever.

That old saying, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” must be true because being without him for the last three days—and constantly concerned for his safety—made me realise just how much this man means to me. It’s nuts, considering how this thing between us began.

I’m currently tucked safely under his arm as we make our way back up to the house. Alexander leans down, placing a chaste kiss on the side of my head.

“You smell like garlic,” he comments with a grin.

I wince. “I’ve been helping Carmella in the kitchen.”

“You have?” he asks, surprise in his voice. “You can cook?”

“What kind of question is that? I’m three-quarters Italian; of course, I can cook.”

“I just thought with your mum … you know …”

“Abandoning me?”

“Hmm,” he hums, his tone suddenly tense. He’s probably regretting steering the conversation in this direction.

“I was a teenager when she left. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her, prior to her leaving.”

“Did you ever hear from her after that?”

“Nope,” I answer, my throat suddenly feeling tight.

“Did you try and find her?”

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