Page 112 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

But God.

I wish he were talking about us.

Until you name the time and place…

I shut my eyes and step out of the vehicle. I don’t say anything to him. I don’t trust myself to.

Because if I open my mouth?

I might just name that time and place.

The inn is quaint. A very joyful looking woman greeted us in Italian at the door, and Marco responded. I had to pretend, of course, that the sound of him murmuring sweet nothings in Italian didn’t set my skin on fire, and when we arrived in the room I didn’t even look around. I headed promptly to the shower.

And I locked the door.

The hot water, blissfully hot despite the weak water flow, cascades over me. Despite my efforts, I can’t seem to scrub Marco’s lips off of me.

Or the words that are beating a tattoo into my brain.

I change into the silk pajamas that Marco left for me, then cautiously open the door. He’s sitting, stretched out on thebed, and it’s only then that my brain registers the fact that there is a bed.

One.

Single.

Bed.

Tonight… I think it might be too much for me.

He’s frowning, looking at his phone, and in the warm (if dim) light from the one sad bulb under the vintage lampshade, the lines between his eyebrows seem to be etched in marble.

I just want to smooth them away.

He looks up, and his brown eyes trace the outline of my body in a way that makes my nipples stand straight up. I know he notices when his eyes hitch on my chest.

I want to shrink back but…

Instead, I straighten.

“Shower’s open,” I murmur, my voice hoarse.

Marco tilts his head. “Roisin,” he murmurs.

It’s my name. One word. Two syllables.

But somehow it almost undoes me.

“What’s wrong?”

I should lie to him, I know.

Instead, I drift over to the little chair that’s positioned next to the bed. I tuck myself into it, sinking into the plush seat, my feet curling against the cushion. Knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my shins and tilt my head so I’m not looking at him, but toward the door.

“This just isn’t how I imagined it,” I finally whisper.

I can’t look at him. I hear him shift on the bed, though, and I do my best to keep my eyes trained on the door.

“I know we needed to do this, Marco. I do. And I know you’re doing what you think is best to protect me. But I just… I really thought I’d be married and it would be… it wouldn’t be…”

---