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“But first, we’ll go through everything and pick out what we want to keep.”
“Really? You want to do that with me?”
“We’ll do it together.” He holds up his glass. “Our first real act as a married couple. What do you think?”
“I think that sounds really good.”
“Good. We’ll finish the bottle of wine and get our house in order. Then tomorrow, you’ll return everything else.”
I reach out my hand. He takes it and helps me over the beanbag. I stagger, off-balance, and end up leaning against his chest. He’s looking at me with his lips parted, the smile reaching his eyes, and my heart does a quick flutter. Instead of getting angry, he’s turning it into a game we can play together. It’s the exact reaction I really wanted. A lesser guy might get pissed, but he’s taking it in stride, and even seems to understand the real point of this mess.
Gian’s not the guy I thought he was. He’s not the mafia asshole I figured he’d grow up into. Actually, he seems so much like the man I was with back in college, the guy I fell for so fast and so hard. He also smells good, which is really nice.
“Where should we start?” he asks, voice soft. His lips are very close to mine and it’s hard to think. Since when did these butterflies wiggle their way into my belly? My heart’s fluttering along with their wings.
“Downstairs,” I say because that’s safe. If we stay up here, I might do something stupid.
“I was hoping you’d say bedroom, but that’s okay too.”
“If you’re thinking about a repeat of last night—” I press my mouth closed and bite my lip, because I definitely was thinking of it.
“I’ve had you on my mind all day.” His thumb brushes my lip, pulling it from my teeth. “But you want to pick furniture.” It’s more a question than a statement.
“Yes,” I say, very breathless. All these porcelain cats are sucking the oxygen from this room, apparently. “Furniture.”
We linger like that. His hands press onto my hips. I want to get on my toes and kiss him, because I know it’ll feel good.
But I also know I might regret it.
I turn away and hurry through the obstacle course until I reach the door. He stares after me, but without saying anything, he follows.
“Should we decide on a style?” I ask, hands shaking with anticipation of being alone with this man all night and somehow resisting the urge to let him have his way with me. “Chippendale? Colonial Revival?”
“How about whatever you like mixed with a few things that I prefer. That’s the style I’m going for.”
“Perfect. That happens to be my favorite.”
Chapter 22
Allegra
Ilounge back on the Boudoir Couch—which is what I’m calling the bright red Victorian fainting couch wedged into the living room—and take a long drink of coffee, surveying the mess. The furniture’s all still where I left it, but now certain pieces are marked off with red ribbons.
We spent most of the night discussing, arguing, and, okay, I’ll admit it, flirting, about what we’re keeping and what we’re giving away. The ribbons were slowly cut and taped down piece after agonizing piece, until I’m pretty sure we’re left with a more reasonable amount of stuff.
“You look comfortable.” Gian walks into the room and I sit up a little straighter at the sight of him. He’s in only a pair of joggers, tight against his muscular thighs, and no shirt. I chew on my lip, frustrated that this guy never seems to get cold even when we have the air conditioning jacked all the way up. Either that or he likes torturing me with his muscular chest.
“Just enjoying good old Bertie before we move her to a less conspicuous location.”
His eyebrows raise. “Bertie?”
“Short for Boudoir.”
“How do you getBertiefrom boudoir? One’s an attractive French word and the other is… Bertie.”
“Bertie likes her name, thanks.” I pat the arm of the couch and stretch my legs. “Would you mind putting a shirt on? You’re scaring the furniture.”
He smirks and picks his way over. “I think it’s more like I’m scaring you.”
