Page 189 of Mario
“What?”
“It was not the only option.”
I stare at him. “What does that mean?”
Instead of answering, he takes my hand again and leads me out of the dining room.
“Mario.”
He says nothing.
We walk through the foyer and up a wide staircase to the second floor. I am suddenly, intensely aware that I am in his house and going upstairs with him. The wine is warm in my blood. His hand is warm around mine. Every step feels closer and closer like a decision I'm not sure I can take back. One I'm not sure I want to.
At the top of the stairs, he leads me down the hall and through the double doors at the end into his bedroom.
I try not to look too curious.
I fail.
The room is large and masculine without being cold. Dark bedding on a huge bed in the center of the room. A sitting area near the windows. A fireplace set into one wall. No clutter, but not impersonal. His suit jacket lies over the back of a chair, and there is a book on the nightstand, turned facedown.
I catch that detail and hold onto it for some reason.
Then he opens a door to what I assume is the closet.
It is not a closet.
Or at least not something that can only be defined as one.
It might as well be another room.
A beautiful, absurd, ruthlessly organized room lined with suits, shirts, shoes, drawers, and built-ins.
I stop just inside. “Of course.”
He looks back. “What?”
“Nothing. This is exactly as unreasonable as I should have expected.”
His mouth curves, but he keeps walking.
Then he opens one of the wide drawers in the center island.
I step closer.
And stop breathing.
Inside are boxes.
Several of them.
White, cream, pale gray, black. Different sizes. Different ribbons. All unmistakably expensive.
My mouth opens.
No sound comes out.
Mario reaches into the drawer and lifts one out.
