Page 62 of Angel

‘I do not snore.’

He arched a brow at my defiant tone.

‘It’s cute too, starts with the gentlest whimper and ends in a roar.’

I flung a pillow at him as he ducked, chuckled, and strolled away.

‘When you’re ready, I’m on the terrace with prosecco, calamari in chili oil and lemon and the most delicious bread rolls from Mrs C.’

I freshened up and joined him, narrowing my eyes as he continued to tease me.

I let him, because seeing a smile on Angel’s face was the world’s best gift to me.

We ate, sipping chilled prosecco from tall glasses while a soft breeze rustled the olive trees.

After the delicious meal, we settled on an outdoor lounge in comfortable silence, Angel’s eyes on the view and mine on my worn leather journal and art book, sketching the landscape.

Angel leaned back, resting an ankle over his knee as he swirled his glass.

‘Show me your sketches, Rox,’ he rasped, turning his smoky eyes toward me.

My heart skipped a beat as I handed it over, holding my breath.

I tracked the movement of his long, calloused fingers as he turned the pages of drawings, charcoal portraits, and color studies.

‘You’ve got real talent,’ he murmured, his thumb tracing a sketch of the coastline. ‘These lines carry so much emotion.’

Emboldened, I found my courage. ‘Now your turn, show me yours.’

His lips quirked, then he rose and sauntered to his room, returning with his battered black notebook, filled with scribbled song lyrics, guitar chords, and rough doodles.

We spent the rest of the evening sitting close, sharing our private worlds through paper and ink, closing the distance between our guarded hearts.

When night settled over the lake, Angel walked me down the hallway to my bedroom door.

‘Sleep well, Roxy,’ he whispered, brushing a thumb over my cheek before stepping back.

His gentleness sent a warm pulse through my chest, my heart expanding with how much care he gave me.

As he turned and strode away down the corridor, every instinct in my body screamed at me to call him back.

I wanted him to come inside, wrap his arms around me, and hold me all night long, just like he’d done the night before.

Instead, I stood in the doorway, staring after his receding form until his shadow disappeared into the dark.

Our third excursion the following day introduced a different brand of drama as I haggled at a market stall over lemons.

A pair of elegant Italian matriarchs swarmed Angel, who was standing guard nearby, exclaiming at his beauty.

One bold grandmother pinched his ass cheek with a loud cackle.

‘Holy hell,’ Angel growled, his face flushing crimson as I doubled over laughing at his helplessness.

That evening, I recounted the story with glee to Mrs. Campanelli while Angel cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes.

‘Must have been the Rossi sisters,’ the housekeeper cackled, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘They’re notorious in town as the Black Widows, and they’ve snagged quite a few toy boys in their time. Watch out, Roxy, your husband might be whisked away before the week is out.’

Angel huffed, but his lips twitched with amusement as we locked eyes again and a sudden arc of pure electricity hit us both.