Page 26 of Irreplaceable

“Yes.” I laughed, knowing it was a common reaction. “It’s my latest obsession, but I do it solely for exercise. And I’m usually fully clothed. Well, as clothed as you can be in booty shorts and a crop top.”

He swallowed hard, desire snaking its way between us. “How did you get into that?”

“One of my friends had a bachelorette party at a pole studio. I can’t even tell you how difficult it is,” I continued on. “Considering my other hobbies, I figured it would be a piece of cake.” I shook my head, still remembering the frustration, the burn of my first few classes several years ago. “But it’s an incredible rush, especially when you master something like the Ayesha.”

And it was unbelievably empowering. It didn’t matter what size you were, you could rock the pole. Pole dancing was one of the best things I’d ever done, helping me love and accept my body more than anything ever had.

“What’s the Ayesha?” His shoulder brushed against mine as he leaned past me to serve himself some more curry.

“It’s like you’re doing the splits, upside down, on a pole. Here—” I pulled out my phone and navigated to a video of it.

“Porca vacca.” He stared at the screen, his mouth agape. “Is that you?” When I nodded, my cheeks heated, and he swiped a hand down his face.

“Yeah.” I shook my head, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “It takes a lot of balance. And a lot of practice. But when you get it perfect, it’s beautiful. Sorry.” I shook my head, waving a hand through the air. “I’m rambling.”

“I like listening to you talk,” he said, stopping me in my tracks. I turned to peer at him, sincerity ringing through his words. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his eyes darting between my own and my lips. “Vola con le proprie ali.”

“She flies…”

“She flies with her own wings,” he said.

I blinked a few times, stunned by the compliment. We’d only known each other a few days, but Enzo understood me in a way no other man had. He’d planned activities he knew I’d love. When we shared meals, I knew he intentionally requested more dishes so I could sample to my heart’s content. And in bed, he seemed to understand what I craved without my asking.

This vacation—this man—were exactly what I’d needed. And I didn’t want it to end.

He refilled our glasses with arak, and the longer we sat there, watching the sun set and the moon rise, the more my inhibitions fell away. I didn’t care that the staff might see us. I didn’t care about anything but enjoying this moment. In a few days, we’d both be headed home, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.

I wanted to. God, how I wanted this to be more than just a vacation fling. But I knew it was impossible. Enzo lived in Milan—it was one of the few things I knew about him. I was from LA. And the reason this worked so well was because we were living in a bubble. This wasn’t reality. Hell, any time I tried to find out more about him, he clammed up. But it didn’t matter because I was having fun. And I fully intended to keep having fun as long as I could.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

“What are your hobbies?”

In all the time we’d spent together, he’d told me about his friend Val and his parents, but nothing about himself. Not really. He’d never told me about his job. He’d rarely offered any personal information. And I often hesitated to ask, seeing the way it put him on edge.

Was he a spy? Part of the mafia? A fugitive?

He was too hot to be a politician.

I wanted to laugh at my outlandish theories, but he was quite skilled at being evasive, almost annoyingly so. Still, I felt like I knew him. Or at least, I wanted to believe I did.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin before setting it down. “My…job doesn’t leave much time for hobbies. Like yours, it involves a lot of travel.”

“But surely you have some downtime,” I said, knowing that if I pushed too hard, he’d shut down. Or worse, the mood of the evening would be ruined.

He lifted a shoulder. “It’s very rare. That’s why vacation is so important to me.”

“What would you do if you had time for a hobby?” I asked, sensing that was a question he might actually answer.

He seemed to consider it, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. When he still said nothing, I started throwing out options. “I know—pole dancing.”

He shook his head with a laugh. “No. Though I am very impressed.”

“Knitting.”

He laughed again. “No. Definitely not. That’s a nonna hobby.”

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