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I want to lick him. So not fair.
“And yet you agreed,” he says lightly, and my cheeks burn hot. Yeah, well. It wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever heard. “Photos like that would be too easy for your father to spin. He could paint you as a victim and himself as a hero, and turn the situation to his advantage. A holiday card, on the other hand, sent to all the power players in the city…”
“It makes us seem serious about each other. Domestic.”
“Exactly.” His approving glance makes my tummy flip, and then he’s shrugging on a matching black sweater, complete with a slightly bigger reindeer.
“And this won’t damage your scary mob boss vibe?”
“No.” There’s a flash of teeth as he grins, settling onto the bench swing. “Even the underworld has a sense of humor. And they’ll know it’s not real.”
…Right.
Only an idiot would forget that detail.
“Try to look more natural,” the henchman rumbles two minutes later, waving a giant hand in our direction. I slide an inch closer to Santo on the bench swing, already sweating under my clothes.
Theheatin here, jeez. No wonder I’m bright red and all… jittery.
The man frowns but he snaps a few photos, then shakes his head. I tilt my head toward Santo, thrilling at his sea spray and lightning scent as I whisper in his ear.
“Are you sure your goon is the best photographer around?”
“Diego’s fine.” Pale eyes narrow on me. “And you can’t keep calling my men goons.”
“Santo’s little helpers?”
He pinches my side, and I snort. When we look up, the g—Diego is staring at us, nonplussed. Has he never seen his boss joke around before?
“What if I sit on his lap?” I suggest, feeling bold. And I aimed my question at the photographer, but Santo’s already drawing me onto his strong thighs. The bench swing wobbles as we rearrange, but Santo slides closer to the middle and it settles.
“You’re enjoying this,” he murmurs in my ear. His breath wafts over my curls, tickling the strands against my neck. “You could have cuddled up to me at any time, Erin.”
Somehow, I don’t think that’s true. This man is cold and distant and work-obsessed—usually, anyway. Absolutely not the cuddling type. This interlude, with his strong arms wrapped around me and his lips grazing over the curve of my neck, this is just make believe.
“Bullshit,” I wheeze, wriggling closer until my sore back is plastered against his chest. I’m blocking his reindeer from the shot, but I don’t care. My head tips back against the mobster’s shoulder, and my gaze is fuzzy as I stare up into the canopy of tropical leaves. “As if you’d let me climb all over you in real life.”
Santo’s arms tighten around me, and his words are soft. Just for me, buried in the curtain of my hair. “Try me, Erin.”
Woof.
“Domestic,” the photographer calls gruffly. “Not R-rated, remember? Simmer down, both of you.”
Santo’s chest rumbles with a laugh as I cackle. And this isfun, this is the lightest I’ve felt in… well, maybe ever. Has anyone ever held me this tightly before? I don’t think so.
Not sure anyone’s ever held me at all, now that I think of it. Not since I was a little girl with a nanny. Well, that’s pathetic.
“You’ve gone wooden.” A thumb strokes over my ribs, steady and comforting. “Have you had enough?”
Ha. It’s the opposite problem. “Dude, we could do this all day and I wouldn’t get enough.”
And I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me spill my secrets so readily—that makes me open and trusting and so freaking vulnerable, to a mob boss of all people. But Santo De Rossi hums, low and pleased, and when he whispers, “Not a dude,” my toes curl in my borrowed sneakers.
I mean it, you know. I want this moment to last forever.
“Say cheese,” the photographer says, and I swear he’s hiding a smile.
I beam at the camera and refuse point blank to think about the future.
