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“I’m married.” Mom rolled her eyes at me. “Not dead. Take it. That’s a really good one. I’ve fully educated you on the subject but still, you can learn a thing or two from that couple before you have to do the deed for the first time.”
So, I kept them. Grew to love them. I read them like handymen read “how to” manuals or Mary reads a cookbook. Then re-read them like watching my favorite movies with Mary.
Mary.
Let’s think pure, grandmotherly thoughts. Though Mary’s a Beauty so there’s probably nothing pure about her…. The grown women in my life are the kinkiest group of… Gross. No one is supposed to think thoughts about one’s adoptive grandmother’s sex life.
Moving on.
Back to the point.
Dad’s announcement.
But…
Savage. I watch him from my viewpoint across the room. Now he’s removing his suit jacket, carefully folding it over a chair, giving us all a view of how tightly the material of his crisp shirt stretches over his bulging shoulders.
What was my point again?
Oh right.
My trip. To Italy. To meet my fiancé face-to-face for the first time. Mom’s exhausted from party planning. Dad is busy. And I needed more than the obligatory forty-eight hours to get to know this man before I marry him.
I’ll be leaving in a few days to travel solo. Solo, if you count a bodyguard and security team of twenty-four men, rotating in two shifts of twelve, that will shadow me. My mother’s voice rings in my mind. You won’t even know they are there! I’ll stay in Italy for eight weeks to get to know my groom and my new home, leading up to the wedding.
And… and now instead of thinking about traveling, my mind is traveling to a very dirty place as, with great care, Paolo folds up his jacket with his big hands, draping it over the back of a chair. Now, with perfectly formed fingers, he reaches for the cuffs at his wrists.
He's practically undressing. Is it hot in here? I hadn’t noticed before now. I pull the silk of my bodice away from my sticky skin.
He’s talking to my father, such a casual air about him it’s like the announcement he’s about to be part of is nothing more than a reading of a menu. He removes one of his gold cuff links and slips it in his pocket. Flips up the cuff of the shirt. Up and over, up and over, till he’s rolled it to just below his elbow. He stops, turning his attention to the other sleeve.
He hesitates for a moment, that little muscle in his tanned forearm rippling. Trouble with the remaining cuff link? No. He senses something. His conversation pauses, his attention moving away from his wrist, his eyes raising.
He’s looking directly at me.
“Smile,” Mom hisses, digging her sharp elbow into my waist. “He’s looking over here.” No, Mom, he’s not looking over here. He’s staring directly into my soul. Or at least that’s how it feels as those dark eyes pierce mine. “You want him to like you. He’s doing a huge favor for us, taking you on.”
“Am I really that bad?” I say, but my words are only a murmur, nearly too low for her to hear.
“I didn’t mean it like that, but sometimes you…bolt.”
“God, he is good looking, isn’t he?” Kitty quivers. Down, girl. I press my thighs together.
“You think so?” She studies my face and for a moment I’m wondering if she’s reconsidering his position and thinking about finding another bodyguard.
I look away from him, focusing on my mom. “He’s fine. You’re coming to Italy way before the wedding, right?”
She gives a definitive nod. “We will be meeting you a few weeks before the ceremony.”
“Me and my security entourage,” I remind her.
“You won’t even know they’re there,” she says predictably. “You have your first two weeks solo to travel then Dad and l will meet you closer to your wedding, when the girls and I arrive in Italy to help plan.” She leans over, whispering in my ear. “If there’s any way you can get to Greece to visit the Parish before the wedding, please do it. You’re in desperate need of a tan and you know how white can wash out a girl.”
I am blindingly pale now. Any color from our last trip is long gone. I reach over, grabbing her hand to give it a squeeze. “I gotcha, Mom. I’ll make it happen.”
“Have you thought about your theme?” she asks.
“Theme?” I ask. “For the trip?”
