Page 33 of Tempting Tessa

He’s got two robes draped over his arm. One is a rich, charcoal gray that looks expensive as fuck, and the other—my breath catches—is a soft lilac color that matches my hair almost perfectly.

“Here,” he says, holding out the purple one. “Put this on.”

I slide off the counter and take it, running my fingers over the impossibly soft material.

“So how many women have worn this before me?” I ask, slipping my arms into the sleeves.

“None,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I bought it explicitly for you. No other woman has been in this house except my housekeeper.”

His reaction startles me. I was just being a smartass, but his response feels too raw, too honest to be bullshit.

“Oh,” I say lamely, clutching the robe closer around me. It fits perfectly, wrapping around my curves like it was made for me. Which, apparently, it was.

Matteo shrugs into his gray robe, tying it with jerky movements that betray his irritation. “Contrary to what you seem to think, I don’t make a habit of bringing women here. This isn’t a fucking hotel.”

“I was just⁠—”

“Just being a brat,” he finishes for me, stepping close again. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip. “You think I fuck every pretty thing that crosses my path?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling small. “You’re a powerful man with money and influence. I just assumed⁠—”

“You’ve made assumptions about a lot of things,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “Now, come on. Let’s get some food in you before you pass out.”

He takes my hand and leads me out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down a wide hallway. I’m too dazed to really take in the details, focused instead on the warmth of his hand around mine, the way his robe falls open slightly as he walks, revealing glimpses of his chest.

We descend the grand staircase and head toward the back of the house, ending up in a massive kitchen that looks like something out of a cooking show. All gleaming stainless steel, marble countertops, and professional-grade equipment.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the island in the center of the kitchen.

I slide onto one of the high-backed stools, adjusting my robe to make sure I’m covered. It feels strange sitting here in nothing but borrowed silk, watching Matteo Marino move around his kitchen like he knows what he’s doing.

“What are you making?” I ask, watching as he opens the massive refrigerator and begins pulling out ingredients.

“Cacio e pepe,” he replies, setting down a block of Pecorino Romano and some fresh pasta on the counter. “Simple but satisfying.”

My stomach does a weird flip that has nothing to do with hunger. Cacio e pepe was what my Nonna Gallo used to make for me when I visited her as a kid. It was comfort food, something she’d whip up late at night when I couldn’t sleep.

“How did you know?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.

Matteo glances up, a knowing look in his eyes. “Your nonna used to make it for you, I know. She made it for your father too when we were younger. Conrad mentioned it before.”

Of course he knows. Of course, my father told him about it. These two men have been in each other’s pockets for decades, sharing secrets and building empires.

I watch in silence as Matteo fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil. His movements are efficient and practiced, like he’s done this a thousand times before. For some reason, I never pictured him cooking. In my mind, he was always being served, not serving.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows.

He smirks without looking up from where he’s grating cheese. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Contessa.”

“Clearly,” I mutter, pulling the robe tighter around me.

I feel a sudden wave of unease wash over me. What the hell am I doing here? This is my father’s best friend making me pasta in his kitchen while I’m wearing nothing but a robe that matches my hair. A robe he bought specifically for me, which means he’s been planning this, waiting for me to end up here all along.

I should leave. I should have left the second I came out of that bathroom. Hell, I should have never come here in the first place. What was I thinking? He’s literally twice my age. He’s been to my fucking birthday parties when I was a kid. He probably helped my dad pick out my Sweet Sixteen gift.

And now he’s seen me naked, fucked me senseless, came all over me, and made me call him Daddy.

Well, he didn’t exactly make me call him Daddy. I did that of my own free will; all of this has been a disastrous use of my free will.