Page 32 of Wicked Roses

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Anytime. Espresso?”

“Sure.”

My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s developed a tone that sounds way too casual. I’m trying to play it cool when I’m really a mess. Hopefully Salvatore doesn’t notice, though by the gleam in his eyes, I’m sure he suspects. If he’d just put a shirt on!

I decide to lean into the awkward situation.

“Do you always walk around half naked when you have company?”

He glances up at me while pouring my cup. “Says the woman in a short and tiny robe.”

I look down at my clothes. “I was wearing this last night!”

“You were. And it was just as short and tiny then as it is now.”

My face only grows hotter. “That would be why this might’ve been a bad idea.”

“What would that be?”

“Me, here.”

“You think so? Why’s that?”

I stand where I am as he comes out from around the kitchen counter carrying two cups of espresso. His walk toward me is slow yet purposeful, agonizing in the few seconds it takes him to reach me. I’m left to do nothing but watch him and his lean-muscled, athletic form close the gap between us.

Less than twelve hours ago my tongue was jammed down his throat! I’d groped hiserection. Practically begged him to have sex with me.

That was before the heavy elephant in the room. Salvatore knows the truth about my attack.

“Thank you,” I say unsteadily when he hands me my cup. I hurry to swallow some despite its scalding heat and curls of steam. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why’s this a bad idea, Phi?”

“You know why.”

He stares, seemingly amused.

My brows draw close. “What are you staring at?”

“Some things haven’t changed. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

My heartbeat answers for me with a resoundingyes. It’s in the hard thump against my ribcage, though he has no clue. I stand straight, my shoulders aligned, and force myself to swallow another nonchalant sip of my espresso despite the burn on my tongue.

The burn on myskin.

Salvatore still draws it out of me with little to no effort. His presence, his mereproximityis enough. As we stand opposite each other, the tension feels thick enough to reach out and touch. He must sense it too, even if he acts cool and composed. I catch his gaze almost slipping—healmostlets it dip to my mouth once I bring the espresso cup up for another sip.

His jaw sets harder, and I swear I see the actual muscle there twitch.

I inhale a calming breath and tear my eyes away, moving past him, deeper into the large, industrial-sized kitchen.

“No, Salvatore, you’re not making me uncomfortable. I just don’t want to intrude.”

To my horror, he follows me. He comes up from behind as I seek space. I stop by the wide kitchen window and pretend the faraway view of Rose Hill holds my attention. He leans against the kitchen counter, his hands stowed in the pockets of his gray sweatpants.

“This is a big place. There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

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