Gorgeous. Huge.Dreamy.
A king-sized bed that is indeed unmade, but still cozylooking.
A 50-inch TV that hangs over the wood-burningfireplace.
A large deck with a wet bar andjacuzzi.
Two walk-inclosets.
And a bathroom with a step-in Spanish-tiled shower equipped with six shower heads, and to the right of that, a bathtub large enough to bathe anarmy.
Antonio busies himself, picking up loose articles of clothing from off the floor. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” His cheeks turn red—and it’s the first time the cool and collected Antonio seemsnervous.
He’s actually human, afterall.
I feel a satisfying grin devour my face and, while I try to hide my amusement, my grin doesn’t gounnoticed.
Antonio tosses an armful of clothing into one of the closets. “And what is it that you find so funny?” he solicits, armed with his own mirthfulsimper.
“Truthfully, I find it kind of cute you’re embarrassed that your room is a littlemessy.”
“Cute? Well I guess that’s something.” He places his hand along the back of my waist. “How about I show you the rest of thehouse?”
I giggle as I’m guided out of his room. “Of course. I’d love to seemore.”
Back downstairs, Antonio presents a dining room, a grand living room overlooking a flower garden, an office, a thirteen-seat theater room, an elaborate kitchen, and a unique outdoor living room, before he escorts me into the library—the only room in the house that is not shrouded in black-and-white décor. It’s rather large in scale, with ginger walls and floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying an assortment ofbooks.
Besides the shelves being the focal point of the room, there is a rustic-looking brick fireplace. Sitting on its mantel is a large black-and-white photo. The same photo that sits on his desk back at his office, only obviously muchlarger.
I walk over to take a closer look and, as I stand there, admiring the ravishing woman, curiosity gets the best of me. “Is this your wife, Antonio? She’s strikinglybeautiful.”
He clears his throat. “My wife? Uh, no. I’m not at all married.” He stands beside me, appearing to also admire the woman in the photo. “She,” he explains, now pointing to the photo, “was my dear mother. I had her photorestored.”
Now, that I wasn’texpecting.
“Wasyourmother?”
He nods. “Yep. Unfortunately, I never met her. She died shortly after I was born—this is a photograph of her when she was pregnant with me. I cherish it and display it in here, because my mom loved to read. My grandma told me my mother read to me every single day while she waspregnant.”
I shake my head in utter despair. “I’m sorry, Antonio, I had noidea.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Not that many people do know…I don’t typically show anyone this room, really. And it’s unusual for me to feel comfortable enough to even talk about my mother.” He grabs ahold of my hand, leading me out of the room, and closes the door behind us. “How about we head to the kitchen to check out those designsnow?”
I nod, thinking it’s really the only appropriateresponse.
In the kitchen, Antonio breaks the silence that stood between us as we walked from the library into the kitchen, and invites me to sit down on one of the chairs surrounding the rectangular diningtable.
“Would you care for something to drink, Daniella? I can make coffee, offer you a bottle of water, a martini,or—”
“A martini?” I snicker. “I’m on the clock,Sir.”
He looks up from an invoice he’s reading. “Yes, but you’re with the boss, so it doesn’t count,” he quips. “But you’re right. I’ll show off my liquid chef skills to you anothertime.”
“Liquidchef?”
“Yes. I’m quite talented in the mixed drinks department. So much so, my talent extends beyond that of a bartender ormixologist.”
“So you refer to yourself as a liquid chef?” I ask, clearlyamused.
One eyebrow raised, Antonio says, “among otherthings.”
“Fine,” I fold my arms over my chest and squint my eyes. “Indulge me. I’ll gladly take a martini,please.”
His eyes glisten and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Shaken orstirred?”
