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“Yes, where you saw me operating business,” he smiles calmly. What does this even mean?
“I-I…” my voice stalls and I just look at him.
“I asked the housekeeper to reorganize the wardrobe for you. Everything you need to get ready for the evening is in there,” he commands. “See you at breakfast downstairs.”
That’s it?
“Weirdo,” I mumble as the door shuts behind him and get up. I look at myself in the big mirror. I run my fingers through my curly hair, taming the rebellious strands and coaxing them into place. With each stroke, I feel weirdly pretty. My eyes meet those of my reflection, and a smile begins to form on my lips.
I head for the bathroom to freshen up and go to the kitchen to meet Tommaso for breakfast. The morning sunlight spills into the room, casting a warm glow over the big table. Pancakes.
The last time I had them was when mom made them for me. I used to love them as a kid. I smile, and Tommaso notices it. I sit across from him, nervously fidgeting with the fork as I steal glances at him. His presence is daunting. He enjoys it. He enjoys making me feel uncomfortable.
His gaze, intense and probing, leaves me unsettled. Unable to contain my agitation any longer, I finally break the silence.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" He leans back in his chair, fingers casually tracing the rim of his coffee cup.
"Like what?" he replies, his tone light but carrying an underlying weight, as if he's aware of the effect he has on me.
"As if you're trying to figure me out."
“Mmh… Maybe, I already have.” I mimic his words as he takes another sip of his coffee, knowing that he is not looking.
“Why do you do it?” He scowls.
“What?” I ask, startled.
“Never get tired of asking so many questions,” he scoffs. “Let me guess, forced by habit, there too?” I glance down at my breakfast, suddenly self-conscious. The clatter of cutlery against plates interrupts the quiet.
I muster the courage to meet his peppy eyes again. "Does it bother you that I ask?"
He chuckles, a low and deep throttling sound that gives me goose bumps. "Not at all, ragazzina. Questions are the key to understanding. And understanding, well, that's where things get interesting." Has he always thought of himself as some hero?
"You know," I begin, my tone intentionally taunting, "Not everything is about you." He raises an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with a mix of hilarity and challenge.
"Ah, but it is. A perk of being the main character." I roll my eyes, trying to suppress a smile.
"Main character? More like the desperado in a crime drama. A bit cliché, don't you think?"
He chuckles, setting down his cup. "I don’t mind if you’re the heroin."
I cross my arms, trying not to smile at his tenacity. "I'm pretty sure most people prefer a drama-free life. Not everyone thrives on danger and intrigue.’ I clang my cup on the table. ‘And I did not sign up for this drama. I only care for the ones that don’t involve me.’
He leans back, the corner of his fine lips quirking up. "But where's the fun in that?" I shake my head, a smirk playing on my lips.
"You're like a walking, talking script. Do you rehearse your lines in front of a mirror?"
He feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart. "Ooh, you hurt me." I can't help but giggle, the tension from earlier dissipating. My eyes trail over his face and my breath suddenly hitches at the sight.
How can someone so stubborn be so fine? His chiseled jawline, so sharply defined yet softened by a hint of stubble, draws my gaze. The way the sunlight caresses his skin, casting a glow upon his cheekbones, makes him appear almost ethereal.
He looks at me and suddenly smirks, his gaze travelling to my cleavage. Shit.
I adjust the neckline of the dress, which is barely above my nipples. “Fuck you.” I whisper under my breath.
He winks. “With pleasure.” And still doesn’t avert his eyes. I try not to look at him as we silently get through the breakfast.
“’Laters, baby girl.” And he leaves.
