Page 42 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
As we circle back to the living room, the tour complete, there's a moment where our hands brush against each other, a spark of contact that sends a jolt through me. I catch her eye, and there's a silent acknowledgment of the electricity that's building, a shared recognition of the line we're toeing.
She clears her throat, breaking the moment. "Nice place, Dom. It definitely has your... signature style."
I flash her a grin, the kind that's gotten me into and out of trouble more times than I can count. "Glad you approve. Make yourself at home, Isabella. Tonight, we're just two people enjoying each other's company."
But as I say it, I know it's more than that. There's something brewing between us, a storm of attraction and tension that's ready to break.
As Isabella settles into the living room, I head to the kitchen to put the final touches on dinner. It's nothing too extravagant—I'm a decent cook, but I'm no chef. Still, I've learned that a well-cooked meal can say a lot about a man.
I serve up the dishes—a simple, hearty carbonara with a side of garlic bread and a salad.
To pair with the meal, I've selected a wine that I'm particularly fond of—a 2015 Brunello di Montalcino.
As we sit down to eat, I pour us each a glass of the Brunello, its rich aroma filling the air. Isabella seems pleasantly surprised by the effort put into the meal, and I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at her reaction. It's moments like these—sharing good food and fine wine—that can turn a simple dinner into something more, an experience to remember.
As Isabella settles into her seat at the table, I head over to my stereo system—one of my prized possessions for its killer sound quality.
I flick through my collection, looking for something that strikes the perfect balance between background music and something with a bit of an edge, something that reflects a bit of my personality. My fingers stop on a classic—Sticky Fingersby The Rolling Stones. Perfect.
I hit play and let the opening chords ofWild Horsesfill the room as I head over to the table and ease into my seat.
Across from me, Isabella seems a bit off. There's a distracted look in her eyes, a faraway gaze that suggests her mind is elsewhere.
"You okay?" I ask, trying to catch her eye.
She blinks, refocusing on the present. "Yeah, it's nothing," she says, but there's a hesitation in her voice that tells me it's definitely something.
I lean forward, concern edging my tone. "You sure? You look like something's on your mind."
She pauses, then lets out a small sigh. "It's probably silly, but on my way over here, I had this weird feeling that I was being watched. It's nothing, probably just my imagination running wild."
I feel a sudden jolt of protectiveness, my instincts kicking in. The idea of someone lurking around, watching her, doesn't sit well with me at all. "Listen, Isabella, if you ever feel like someone's messing with you, I want to be the first to know, okay?"
I see a flicker of surprise in her eyes, followed by a softening. "Thanks, Dom," she says, and there's a warmth in her voice that tells me her thanks are genuine. "I appreciate that. And I'm sure it was nothing. Besides, your place is like Fort Knox. I doubt anyone could get past your security."
Her attempt to brush off the concern doesn't completely ease my mind, but I nod, respecting her wish to move on from the topic. Still, as we continue with our meal, part of me can't help but wonder who might be watching her, and why. My gaze drifts to the windows, the city lights twinkling beyond. Whoever it is, if they're out there, I won't let them get anywhere near Isabella. That much I'm sure of.
I decide it’s time to change the subject.
"So, how's the fake fiancée life treating you?" I start, a playful edge to my voice as I pour us both a glass of wine.
She laughs, a light, melodic sound that does strange things to my stomach. "It's a rollercoaster. Never thought I'd be part of a media circus."
I grin, pouring us wine. "Think of it as an alternate reality. It's not every day you get to play a role like this."
As we delve into our pasta, the conversation naturally shifts away from the superficial layers of our fake engagement and toward the upcoming training camp.
"So, the training camp with the Blades," I start, twirling a forkful of spaghetti. "You think the teams will get along?"
Isabella takes a bite, considering. "It'll be interesting, for sure. There's always been a bit of a rivalry, but I think it's a great opportunity for some camaraderie. Might even help dispel some of the tension our 'engagement' has caused. This isreallygood, by the way.”
I nod, taking a sip of wine. "Yeah, it's a good chance for both teams to see we're not just pawns in some PR game. And glad you like it.”
As we're halfway through our pasta, I decide to lighten the mood with a bit of humor.
"You know, I've always wondered if you strategize your relationships like you do your hockey plays," I joke, a playful smirk on my face.
Isabella pauses, her fork midway to her mouth, and I notice a slight stiffening in her posture. Her smile seems to falter, replaced by a more serious expression.
