Page 108 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
A breath of air rushes out. “Uh. Sure. Sure, I’d love that. Where’d you learn?” I fan my shirt slightly. Is it hot in here? Of course it is. The oven’s on.
“My nonna,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue like silk and smoke.
“Your grandmother?” I clarify, even though I already know.
He nods. “Yes.”
“She raised you?”
“Her and my father.”
“In Italy?”
Something about the way he says it—his posture, the faint, faraway gleam in his eye—makes me suddenly want to know everything about him.
“Some in Italy. The rest in Argentina.”
“Why two different countries?” I ask before I can stop myself. My dad always said I was too nosy when I was younger.
He smiles, lazy. “That’s for another day, Americana. We don’t need to unpack family history on our first night together.”
My hand flies to my chest like it might shield me from his heat. “We’re not… it’s not our first night together.”
His smirk deepens. “Oh, trust me. Iremember.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I snap. “We’re not together. Not like that. I’m just staying here. Sleeping here.”
His eyes narrow. “Will you be fucking here, too?”
“Excuse me?” I gasp, shocked and flushed. “I would never bring a man here.”
His gaze turns murderous. “Not if you don’t want someone’s blood on my hands, you won’t.” Something in his gaze tells me he means it. “I meant,” he says, tone flat and possessive, “will you be fuckingme, wife?”
It doesn’t sound like a question.
“No, Declan. That part of thismarriagestays in Vegas.”
His gaze drops to my chest. “Your nipples say otherwise.”
I stiffen. “My body’s response to you is nothing more than that… a response,” I lie, because I’m one breath away from climbing onto this kitchen island and inviting him to ruin me. But I have a bet to win. A sliver of pride to protect. And I’m not ready to hand either over to this man—especially not like that.
I like it better in the shower.
“Suit yourself,” he says, backing off with maddening ease. “But I’m on the other side of the house in the master bedroom, if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.” I snap the words too fast, too firm—like a defiant teenager stomping her foot.
But then he steps forward, and I instinctively step back until the edge of the coffee bar presses into my spine. He’s holding a cannoli now, casual in his hands.
“I guess,” he murmurs, lifting the pastry. “I’ll just have to survive off the memory of one unforgettable night in Las Vegas… with my wife.”
“Exactly,” I say, my voice shaky. Unconvincing.
He raises the cannoli, brushing it lightly across my bottom lip. “Open for me, Americana.”
“What?” My voice catches. “Wha—huh?”
“Open,” he says again, lower this time. “So you can taste.”
