Page 11 of Valentino

I do not, as a rule, hug the men of the Sartori family. They're built like brick walls with terrible childhoods, and I'm reasonably sure any one of them could break my ribs by mistake while reaching for his coffee. I keep a polite distance. Cheek kisses if absolutely required. Air-kisses preferred.

But Valentino is THE Valentino, and my arms are around his neck before my common sense gets a word in.

He goes still.

Just for a beat. That weird, watchful stillness I've noticed before, like someone hitting pause on him. Then one of his hands, and Christ, his hand is enormous, settles briefly between my shoulder blades. Not a hug back, exactly. An acknowledgement.

I'm laughing when I pull away, because if I don't laugh I'm going to think about how my heart just stuttered, and we are not doing that.

"How is this even possible?" I ask, smoothing my hair out of habit, projecting casual. "Are you stalking me? Is this a stalking situation? Because if it is, I have to say, your technique is amazing. I have absolutely no notes."

His mouth twitches.

Barely. Just the corner, up and gone again, like he catches it too late.

"Sit, Signora White,” he says, gesturing to the seat across from him. His voice is exactly what I remember. “Before you cause a scene."

"I cause scenes?" I drop into the chair anyway and hook my bag over the back of it. "You’re the one looming in cafés like a Bond villain. People are going to think you’re poisoning my macchiato."

"If I poisoned you, you wouldn't have time to worry about what people think."

"That is so reassuring. Thank you. I feel incredibly safe right now."

He sits across from me, one hand resting easy on the table, the other on his thigh. I notice that he's positioned himself with his back to the wall and a clean line to the door. He probably can't sit any other way.

"So," he says. "Milan. Are you here to bankrupt yourself in the via Montenapoleone, or⁠—"

"Oh my God, rude." I press a hand to my chest. "I work, Conti. I have a real job and everything. Pay stubs and a tax bracket."

"My apologies." He inclines his head, perfectly grave. The bastard. "Please. Educate me."

"Casa Aurelia." I let myself say it with a little flourish, because I earned every syllable of it. "The campaign. Two years of pitching, three creative directors, one absolutely deranged COO, and they finally said yes. I'm running the launch."

"Congratulations."

He says it simply but it strikes a small, hot place under my sternum I have spent a lot of time pretending isn't there.

I look down at the table and rearrange a sugar packet.

"Thank you," I say, and my voice is quieter than I'd like. I clear my throat. "What about you? Why are you here? Don't tell me Aria or Carmela sent you shopping. I refuse to believe it."

His mouth does that twitch again. He doesn't quite meet my eyes when he answers.

"Business," he says.

One word. A door closing. Discussion ended in the politest possible packaging.

And this is the reminder I keep forgetting around him. That this man, with his quiet voice, his dry little half-smile, and his hand that briefly touched my back like I was something breakable, is from a world I am not supposed to walk into.

The world where you don't ask follow-up questions.

I should not like him.

He's a man from the kind of life people write warning labels about. He's older, dangerous, completely unimpressed by the version of me that works on every other man I've ever met. My charm bounces off him like rain off a windshield.

"Business," I echo, lifting my coffee, raising one eyebrow over the rim. "Mock-formal, Conti. Very on-brand."

His eyes lift to mine then. Hold there a second too long.