Page 36 of Married with Mayhem

“I hate to break it to you, but the real problem is not that my shirt is a little too tight, it’s that my boobs are a little too big. Every shirt I have will stretch the same way. Anyway, what century are we in?”

“The year doesn’t matter when you’re in the company of a pack of horny scumbags.”

“Horny? Gross. These guys have got to be in their seventies.”

Monte’s jaw tightens. Then he reaches behind his head, yanks on his shirt and swiftly pulls it off.

My belly flutters and my pulse speeds up. We’re alone in Monte’s apartment, sitting inches apart, and now he’s taking off his clothes.

“Here.” He dumps the shirt in my lap. “You can put this on.”

The sight of his bare chest is deeply distracting. “Out of the question. It doesn’t match my Harlequin-patterned skirt and tights.”

“So what? Your outfits never match.”

“The vibe I’m going for is Queen of Diamonds. Sorry, but your shirt does not make an appropriate contribution.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters and gets to his feet. He stalks moodily to the kitchen, flings open the fridge, hauls out a beer, unscrews it with one sharp twist of his hand and throws the cap on the floor before he pours the contents down his throat.

Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the view. His broad back is as flawless as a sculpture. The gun holstered on his hip had been hidden by the shirt but now it’s in plain sight. The arm holding the beer shows off his largest tattoo on the left bicep just beneath his shoulder. A large cross is embellished with the colors of the Italian flag. Arched along the top is the wordFamiglia. The caption finishes with the wordsè tuttoon the bottom.

Family is everything.

This is not just an empty slogan to Monte. I’ve seen him interact with his father and brother enough to understand he’d lay down his life for them.

“Can I keep your shirt anyway?” I ask him. The warmth of his skin still clings to the fabric. A deep tug of desire stirs and throbs as I hold it in my hands.

He finishes his beer. “What the hell for?”

Because it smells like him.

Because I want to hug it and cuddle it and maybe sleep in it.

Nothing stalkerish about that.

“Souvenir,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I want a Gino’s Pizzeria shirt?”

“Fine, keep it.” He tosses the beer bottle in the trash. “I’ve got about a dozen of them anyway.”

There’s a ping from his phone and he checks it with a sigh.

“Is it time?” I ask.

Despite Monte’s scowl, I can’t help feeling excited. While I’m obsessed with the endless options of online gaming, there’s something very basic and appealing about rounds of traditional poker in an old basement.

Besides, I like the idea of impressing Monte. I want him to see me in action and find out that I’m more than just a helpless klutz with eclectic fashion sense. I’m actually good at something.

Nearly all of my poker experience has been online so this game will be different. My father was an avid poker player. One time I begged to tag along to one of his games. He ridiculed me in front of his men and they all laughed me out of the room. I never asked again.

Before we return downstairs to Gino’s, Monte covers himself with a different shirt. What a pity, although I suppose it’s for the best. He intends to remain in the room during the game. I would have had trouble keeping my eyes on my cards and off his body. However, he looks mighty dashing in this new button down black shirt that’s rolled to the elbows to showcase his imposing forearm muscles.

Monte zips down the flights of stairs with the speed of a panther. I’m a little slower, holding onto the railing, careful of my stiff ankle, refusing to be tempted by his offer to carry me to the bottom. I need to get my brain in game mode and swooning over Monte Castelli will interfere.

The street has been dark for hours and the ‘Closed’ sign has already been flipped around at Gino’s. Stevie stops cleaning the counter long enough to let us in. The only other occupants are sitting in the back; a trio of grim looking fellows who probably emerged from the womb on a quest to become mafia soldiers. Surprise registers on their faces when they see me but they return Monte’s curt nod and resume eating their pizza.

“Your dad’s downstairs,” Stevie says to Monte and gives me a friendly wink. “Good luck, Sabrina.”

“Thanks, Stevie.”

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