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Because I'd never had a man go out of his way to open a door for me. Actually, I wasn't sure I'd ever had a man pull a car door open for me period.
But that wasn't enough for Luca Grassi.
Oh, no.
This man went ahead and reached his hand out to me, waited for me to place mine in it, gently helped me out of the car even though I was clearly capable of doing so myself.
Maybe I should have objected to it, bristled because I didn't need help.
But that wasn't how I felt right then.
I felt almost, I don't know, honored.
It was charming and unexpected and I couldn't help but wonder why it ever fell out of favor.
There were no sparks or butterflies. I had never been a sparks and butterflies person, having learned from a young age to be a realist through and through. But I had to admit it felt calming and reassuring to feel a strong hand holding mine, offering help.
He didn't immediately drop it when I climbed out of the vehicle, or even after he slammed the door shut behind me.
His gaze went to mine, deep, unreadable.
For a beat.
Two.
Three.
Longer.
Long enough for a strange heaviness to settle on my chest, making my breathing feel harder, slower.
But then one of his men slammed his door, breaking the spell.
Luca's hand gave mine a small squeeze before dropping it.
We weren't even going to talk about the irrational surge of disappointment that rolled around my stomach, worked its way up my throat until I felt like I was choking on it.
Disappointment.
That made no sense.
What could I have possibly been disappointed about?
That he hadn't, I don't know, pushed me back against the wall, pressed his lips to mine, and taken my mind off my ugly reality for just one blissful moment?
Actually, yes, I realized as I followed numbly behind him as we went into the house, that was exactly where my mind had been going.
Why, I had no idea.
Yes, Luca Grassi was a good-looking man. No, it was more than that. He was immeasurably attractive. Like he stepped off the page of a magazine.
But being handsome had never been a good enough reason to feel so intensely preoccupied with the idea of kissing someone. At least not for me. I was someone who was into the whole package, not just the pretty trappings.
And I didn't know much about this man.
Well, that wasn't fair. I knew enough to feel intrigued about him. He was successful and driven. He was intelligent and a little bit dangerous. He was willing to offer a helping hand. He had good manners. He let his men who clearly respected him tease him, so he didn't take himself too seriously.
It was enough, I figured, to know about someone to want to feel their lips on your lips, on your neck, your ribs, your inner thighs.
