Page 49 of The Wrong Vintage
I look at myself in the mirror after brushing my teeth as I apply moisturizer.
Considering how much I work outside, I am careful with my skin. It’s not vanity. It’s health. So, I never ever wander out without sunblock.
“What should I wear?” I ask my reflection.
Usually, I wear a nightshirt and panties, and if it’s warm, as it is this time of year, I sleep naked.
Well, that isn’t going to work tonight.
I open Alba’s closet. We’re the same size. I find lingerie.
Seriously, Alba? Why on earth would you have a red negligee?
I finally find an oversized T-shirt that looks like it belongs to a man, probably an ex-boyfriend. It comes to mid-thigh. Appropriate night-time attire to sleep with my husband, who is essentially a stranger.
When did my life become an American soap opera?
Nico is in his underwear when I come back. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s wearing only his white boxer shorts—the color stark against the olive of his skin.
He looks good. Very good.
Merda.
I gasp.
He turns, smiles, and removes his watch, setting it on my dresser.
“I didn’t know which side you sleep on,” he informs me as he casually walks up to the bed like we do this every night.
I can’t look away. Sturdy, hair-roughened thighs. Someone told me he played soccer in college. There are muscles…like everywhere.
I’m fit. Not because I work out, but because I have a job that requires physical movement all the time. But his body is a?—
“Alessia?”
I look up from his man nipples to his face.
He’s amused. He knows how he looks. He knows the effect he’s having on me.
Cretino! Jerk!
I stand there for an awkward second too long.
“Well,” I blurt, “I usually sleep on the left.”
“Okay.”
“Is it…ah, okay?”
He smirks. “Yes, Alessia, it is. I don’t have a usual side.”
“Is that because you never stay long enough to need one?” I clap my hand over my mouth as soon as the words are out. I can’t believe I just said that.
He chuckles but thankfully says nothing.
I slip under the covers first, lying stiffly on my side, hands folded on my stomach like I’m preparing for surgery.
The mattress dips as he lies down beside me—careful, deliberate, keeping a polite distance that somehow feels more familiar than if he’d pulled me close.
