Page 61 of Mario
I am here because I am good at my job.
Or maybe I’m the one who needs reminding of why I’m here.
Not because of his hands.
Not because of his mouth.
Not because of the amaretto still burned into my memory with startling clarity.
I am damn good at my job, I remind myself.
Even if I currently look like a woman who might burst into tears at the thought of something as simple as resetting a password.
A knock sounds at my door.
I do not look up. I suppress a sigh and the urge to rub my temples.
Probably someone else to complain that I took away their access to employee tax documents.
“Come in,” I call without looking up from my spreadsheet.
The door opens, and Lorenzo steps inside with his usual polished composure and a paper bag in one hand. He looks immaculate, because apparently the Conti men are prohibited from looking tired, rumpled, or spiritually defeated.
Or sexually frustrated.
“Ms. Murray.”
“Mr. Conti.”
His lips curve faintly. “When will you stop calling me that?”
“When you stop calling me Ms. Murray,” I reply pleasantly.
“Fair enough.” He steps farther into the room. I smell the food instantly. Fresh bread and something warm and tomato-bright.
My stomach gives a desperate lurch.
Lorenzo’s gaze moves over the desk, the empty coffee cup, the untouched water bottle, the files, then me.
It makes me want to sweep everything off the desk and hide it.
Then crawl under the desk and hide myself.
“You look busy,” he says.
“That is a very diplomatic way of phrasing whatever you were actually thinking.”
“I was actually thinking you look like you haven’t seen sunlight all week.”
I press my lips together. “I have seen sunlight.”
“Through a window?”
“Sunlight is sunlight.”
He sets the bag on the only empty corner of my desk. “My mother would have a fit if she saw how you are working.”
I blink. “Your mother?”
