Page 39 of Casita Casanova
When he’s out of the kitchen, I wait for him to begin his conversation with whomever he needed to reach, then I release my breath loudly and turn on the faucet as cold as it will go. Holding my wrists beneath the stream of water, I wait for my veins to cool down. It’s too damn hot in here.
Am I so desperate after spending twenty years with Eddie—the last handful of which were loveless and lonely—that I would be this turned on by just the simplest of touches from a near-stranger? Good grief, it’sembarrassing.
And I can’t control it; Lord knows I’ve tried.
He sees it, too, which makes it all that much worse, because he’s messing with me now, teasing me with little one-off touches and heating my blood with looks that linger way too long to be innocent.
“Ugh,” I groan, splashing my face with the cold water. To hell with my mascara; I need to cool the heck down.
And, as if living just a few yards away from him for the next six months wasn’t bad enough. He’s going to be working with me now. Shaking my head, I laugh about that last part. Why did he do that? Does he even need a job? He’s paying me way more than I would have asked for—and way more than my little casita is worth. Not to mention the designer clothes and luggage. I may not be wealthy, but I’ve spent my life in southern California; I know who Louis Vuitton is and I can spot a pair of D&G jeans. The little emblem on the back pocket is a dead giveaway.
Not that I was staring at his ass at any point today.
Okay, fine, I was. I totally was.
It’s a perfect freakin’ ass.
Whimpering, I lower my head into my hands. I’m so, totally,toast. And he’s far too young to even be looking at me the way he does.
He clears his throat and I whip around, wiping beneath my eyes to clear any mascara that may have smeared when I gave myself a much-needed cool down.
“You okay?”
I nod. “How old are you?”
Cas tilts his head, then walks into the kitchen, resuming his position leaning his hips back against the opposite counter. Has this kitchen always been so small?
Andhot?
“I’m twenty-nine.”
I snort, covering my mouth quickly. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem. How old are you?”
I purse my lips. “Hasn’t your mother taught you that it’s rude to ask a woman her age?”
“My mother died when I was eleven.”
My mouth drops open. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs, as if losing a mother isn’t a big deal. I have my doubts.
“I told you mine, Maryn, now you tell me yours. That’s how it works.”
With a sigh I admit, “I’m forty-two.”
“Thirteen.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s how many years there are between us. Only thirteen.”
“Only?” I bite back a laugh as I turn my back to him. Thirteen’s a pretty big age gap.
“It bothers you.”
I jump.Dammit, he’s right behind me again. “Stop that.”
