Page 61 of Angel

From fresh local shrimp caught on the sea floor between Capri and Massa Lubrense, to red seabream, octopus, and totani, a type of calamari.

However, when we returned onboard with our newspaper-wrapped packages, the engine failed to spark.

‘Need a wrench,’ Angel muttered, rooting around the hold until he found a tool chest.

He got into the engine’s metal housing and tinkered as grease splattered his gray shirt.

The fabric strained against his flexed triceps, and my breath hitched in my throat.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the muscled contours of his back.

Damn, the way his thick thighs bunched, and his ass contoured in his shorts as he moved was delicious.

‘You’re also a boat engine expert?’ I asked, balancing on the rocking fiberglass hull.

‘I spent three years tinkering with busted army trucks in Afghanistan,’ he grunted, tugging a wire and tightening a bolt until the engine roared back to life.

I arched a brow, impressed, reminded again why I found this man so delectable.

We returned to the villa with our catch and, to my surprise, Angel offered to cook.

After descaling and washing the fish, he threw the shrimp and bream into a bowl.

He covered them with olive oil, lemon juice, minced garlic, sea salt, and fresh oregano.

By noon, the sun beat down on the pool deck, warming my bare shoulders as the delicious scent of charred seafood filled the air.

The grill crackled on the patio, releasing white smoke that drifted over the turquoise swimming pool.

Angel brought out a platter stacked with grilled bream, crisp green salad, toasted sourdough, and cold slices of watermelon for dessert.

We ate at the wooden outdoor table, cracking shrimp shells with our fingers while a light summer wind played with our hair.

The simple feast and wine were incredible, settling the nervous fluttering that plagued my stomach when I was around Angel.

‘Eat up, beautiful,’ my husband rasped, sliding a generous piece of fish onto my plate.

I jolted.

Beautiful?

That was new.

‘I’m eating as fast as I can, handsome,’ I replied, offering him a tiny smile.

After lunch, we washed up and, drowsy from the sun, we ended up crashing on the couch with books, where I soon slid into an afternoon nap.

‘Rox,’ a deep-timbred voice murmured.

I knifed up from sleep and peered up at Angel.

He was holding out a glass of wine to me as the eventide light streamed through the shutters, painting golden ribbons across the floor tiles.

‘Wake up sleepyhead, dinner’s ready.’

‘How long was I out?’ I breathed, sitting up.

‘Enough to hear you snore,’ he rasped.