Page 50 of Dirty Dix

Dixon shakes his head, and he leans forward, placing the empty plate on top of a closed textbook. “No, it’s actually Di Matteo. But I changed it once I hit college to become a little more Americanized.”

I know he must speak Italian because his surname rolls off his tongue, and his accent is very authentic. Holy shit, I have the world’s hottest man sitting in my house, eating dessert, and he’s literally fluent in the language of love.

“And where did Dixon come from?”

He clears his throat before confessing, “I was named after my father’s fishing boat.”

I try not to smile. “Oh.”

When he sees my reaction, he clarifies. “Well, his boat was actually namedDixieland. America was his freedom. A better way of life. So when I was born, my parents mixed a little of their past roots with their present roots.”

“I like that it has meaning.”

He nods with a smirk. “I guess so. But honestly, I’m just glad they didn’t call me Dixie.”

I cover my mouth to stifle my laugh.

As I digest everything he just shared, a thought suddenly occurs to me.

Madison, do not ask him to say something in Italian, I silently scold.

“So do you know any swear words in Italian?” I ask, totally ignoring my inner voice.

Dixon laughs, the muscles in his thick neck flexing. “Why is that the first question most people ask?”

I lift my shoulders into a playful shrug. “I dunno, you tell me—you’re the doctor.”

Dixon nods and moves his mouth from side to side, appearing to be in full contemplation of what to say. “You want tame? Or no-holds-barred?”

“Give it to me.” I smile.

“Vaffanculo.”

I have no idea what he just said, and he more than likely just insulted me, but I don’t care because that phrase just made me keel over.

“More,” I shamelessly demand.

Dixon’s lips twitch. “You didn’t even ask what I said.”

I bashfully smile, as he so knows I’m impressed. “It doesn’t matter. I trust you.”

And I really do. Dixon looks reflective, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on my overshare.

Taking off his glasses, I can see him weighing up on what to say next. “Sei una bella ragazza con gliocchi belli.”

Oh…wow.

I’m on the edge of my seat, swooning as Dixon just serenaded me in his native tongue. I know that couldn’t be a curse because I’m not totally clueless, and I know the word “bella” means beautiful. So did Dixon just call me…beautiful?

My heart begins racing at the possibility, and I whisper, “What did you say?”

The air is charged by an unseen static, and I know I should stop talking, but I can’t.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter,” he says, matching my tone as he inches closer to me while I do the same to him.

“I changed my mind,” I reply, my eyes involuntarily dropping to his mouth.

“I said you’re a beautiful girl,” he huskily confesses.

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