Page 37 of Broken Deal

She slowly lowers her arms and stands there, still scrutinizing me with those beautifully haunting eyes. The gap between us is so small I can feel her chest lightly pressingagainst me, rising and falling with each small, hitched breath. I could reach out, grab the nape of her neck, and finally kiss her. It’s killing me not to. I’m using all my self-control to hold back and be a gentleman.

She must sense the tension radiating off me, because she tenses her shoulders and takes a step back abruptly. “What are you doing here, Lorenzo?”

“Our summer adventure starts today, remember?”

“It’s like five in the morning!” she exclaims.

“I did say bright and early,” I reply, my voice lacing with amusement.

Her nostrils flare. “It seems we have a different definition of what bright and early entails.”

“Well”—I wave my hand at her impatiently—“go get ready. Bring your passport and an overnight bag.”

She furrows her eyebrows in confusion. “Why?”

I don’t know why I thought this was going to be easy. Of course, she’s going to question me every step of the way. I was an idiot for thinking otherwise.

“Why must you question me every single time?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Why must you talk to me like you’re my keeper?” she snaps back.

“Are you ever going to drop the attitude?” I counter.

“Are you ever going to stop being so annoying?” she retorts.

I give her the most unimpressed expression I can muster, and she crosses her arms and lifts her chin slightly in a challenge. She may be only five-feet-tall, but her personality is big and loud—in the best way possible. Who wants a quiet, dainty woman? That’s boring. This is so much better. Unfiltered. Painfully beautiful. Smart.Perfect.

After a beat of silence, she relents. “Fine. Stay here.Don’t go snooping around,” she warns, pointing a finger at me.

I raise my hands. “I would never.”

She gives me ayou’re-full-of-shitlook and walks back to her bedroom to start getting ready.

I can’t possibly sit still. It’s not in my nature, so as soon as she closes the door of her bedroom, I walk into the kitchen. The small stove and oven sits in the corner of the tiny room, and the counter space is limited, with just enough room for a cutting board and a coffee maker. A small, single-basin sink is tucked under the only small window, the natural light coming in slightly as the morning sun rises. Above the sink, a couple of open shelves hold four mismatched round plates and cups.

I barely fit inside this kitchen, but that doesn’t stop me from opening the small black fridge and finding what I’m looking for. I grab the eggs and a few vegetables then grab the cutting board and start chopping some onions, peppers, and spinach, letting the colors mix vibrantly on the cutting board. Opening the cabinets below, I find where the pots and pans are stored, grab the small skillet, and heat up some olive oil before sautéing the vegetables until they’re tender.

As I’m pouring the eggs over the veggies, Sophia walks into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

Without looking at her and pouring in the rest of the whisked eggs, I say, “What does it look like? Breakfast. A frittata, if we’re getting specific.”

She approaches me, looking as I watch the eggs set around the edges. “What?”

I go to the fridge and grab the cheese, and as I’m sprinkling some on top, the oven beeps, letting me know it’s ready to be used. Then I transfer the skillet to the oven.

“A frittata,” I repeat.

“No, no. I heard you the first time. I just didn’t think you would know what that was.”

“I have hundreds of restaurants around the world. I’m not just a pretty face.” I look at her, winking.

“Consider me impressed.” She pats my chest twice. “That’ll do, piggy, that’ll do.”

“I already quotedBabeto you once, so this doesn’t count. I’m still in the lead.”

She points her index finger between us. “And when did this become a competition?”

“Oh, Blue, you have much to learn about me,” I reply, as I bring the frittata out of the oven and slide it out of the pan before slicing two pieces.

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