Page 8 of Texting My Mafia Boss

“Uh, sorry,” I murmur. Where has my confidence gone?

“Don’t be,” he says casually. “That was my last set. Mara?” His eyes fix on me. I think. Do I imagine the way they flit up and down my body, like he’s assessing me? And perhaps I want him to do that.

Which is ridiculous. It would mean risking this job. And I’m probably misreading the situation anyway.

He walks over, offering me his hand. He’s smiling, but there’s some tension there. “Ettore.”

I take his hand. It’s hot and rough. A strange warm sensation rushes up my arm. I snatch my hand away quickly.

He smirks knowingly. “Should’ve thought of the sweat.”

“I don’t mind.”

Oh, God. I didn’t mean to say that.

He raises his eyebrows in amusement. It takes a herculean effort not to look down at his gym shorts again after my initial glance. They’re loose fitting except for a certain area. Looking again would be highly inappropriate. Even thinking like this is highly inappropriate.

“The door, Mara. Or is this a hostage situation?”

“Oh, sorry!” I quickly step aside, and he walks past me, almost touching. He must’ve been working hard. He’s radiating heat.

I look at the weights and sigh. I’m going to have to remove every single one.

But just as quickly as he left, Ettore is back.

“Old habits,” he says as he moves towards the weights.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he says gruffly, looking up at me for a moment. I can’t decide if he’s a gentleman or a devilish. Maybe a little of both. “But my mother taught me manners.”

He removes the weights. I try to look anywhere but at his big, tanned muscles moving as he slides the last plate onto the bracket, then moves toward the door again.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t mention it.”

I want to ask why he’s home. And if he’s home, why hasn’t he spent time with his daughter? Or maybe he did, before I arrived. Does he work from home? Maybe that’s why people keep coming and going.

“She’s having a nap,” I say.

He pauses at the doorway, his back to me. Tension ripples across his shoulder blades. “Good,” he says. “It’s tiring work, being so insightful and imaginative.”

He leaves. I drop onto the bench and blow out a long breath. Those compliments were something else, so much kinder than the generic stuff many dads would say. Sylvieisinsightful. Sheisimaginative.

I take out my cell phone to put on some music, when a crazy, reckless idea hits me. Livia gave me Ettore’s number, with strict instructions: “This is for emergencies only. Anything else will come through me.”

My heart thundering, I take the risk.

Mara: I’m teaching her to knit. Maybe she can make you something for the fall.

My thumb hovers over the send button. This is not my job. But it feels so right. Surely he’s not going to get mad over a message about his daughter. I click send, then place my phone face down and get on with my workout. I don’t do much. I just do what I can, some weights, then some walking on the treadmill.

I go to the nanny’s quarters, a clean, characterless guestroom. After a quick shower, I change into my regular clothes, thenfinally check my phone. He hasn’t replied, but he clearly did read it by thereadnotification next to the message. That means he could be pissed. He might even be ratting me out to Livia right this second.

I sit on the bed, tapping my foot. I need to wake Sylvie soon but not before I apologize for my misstep.

I start typing again.