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“I said, you seem to spend too much time drinking and not enough time apologizing,” I giggle.
He arches one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Why do you say this, Caterina?”
“Because your apology was a little thin, earlier,” I say smugly.
This earns me a second eyebrow. “What makes you think I am at all in the practice of apologizing?”
“I guess you probably aren’t,” I yawn. I’m not drunk, but definitely buzzed enough that I’m beginning to feel quite tired.
“No,” he murmurs. “No, I am not.”
“Anyway. A proper apology has to feel real. Like it comes from your heart,” I wave my hand at him. I wonder if he’ll be interested in giving me more of the amaretto, which it turns out, is not quite so bad after all.
“From the heart?”
“Yup,” I say, loudly popping the end of the word. I reach for my glass but find it empty.
Hmmm.
I definitely want more.
“And what about my apology was not from the heart, Caterina?”
The way he says my name, Lord almighty.
Oh. Wait.
He asked me a question.
I put my hands on my hips and draw my face into a frown. “Caterina,” I say, adopting a deep tone, pretending to come close to Elio’s baritone. “I was wrong.”
“I fail to see the issue,” he says mildly.
I step closer to him. “An apology, for your information, includes more groveling.”
“It does?”
“Yes,” I say, so close that I could poke him in the chest if I wanted to.
“And pray, tell me how my apology could have included a grovel.”
I do poke him in the chest then. “You’ll just have to figure it out.”
Wow.
His pecs are hard like rocks. Firm is an understatement.
I mean damn.
“Oh no. I think I’d like to see an example,” his accent thickens and his voice is low.
I look up from under my eyelashes at him.
Elio’s face is dark. He’s looking at me with an expression in his eyes that makes my skin heat and my blood pound in my ears.
This is getting dangerous.
I retreat slightly, stepping back one step. I fold my arms, thinking.
