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“Lime green,” Ysenia giggles. I look back at her.
“Easier to spot,” I grin. Her cheeks redden and she nods. “Give me a second then we can get going.”
Usually, during my travels, my bags were easy to find. Today wasn’t one of those days. It seemed like every passenger on my flight had the same bag. Like there was a sale on the damn things.
When I finally found my bags, Ysenia and I made our way to the parking garage. She seemed to have parked in the farthest parking spot. She kept apologizing and explaining how it was the only parking garage with spots open.
“Our chariot,” she smiles, gesturing at a blackMercedes.
“Wow. Nice ride.”
It’s almost identical to mine. Even the tint is similar which shocks me because my tint was a custom job that I had done back home in Italy.
“Thank you.” She unlocks the doors and pops the trunk. I grab my first bag and lift it into the back. Ysenia grabs my second bag.
“No, ma’am,” I chuckle, grabbing the bag from her. “Ladies don’t do the heavy lifting.”
“Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” she teases, then releases her hold on my bag.
I place the second bag in the back and close the trunk. We climb inside the car. The interior is cream-colored and clean enough to eat off. It smells just like Ysenia’s perfume.
“I really like your perfume,” I say absent-mindedly like an idiot.
“Thanks. It’s new.” She glances at me, smiles then starts the car. It purrs like a kitten.
We buckle up and are soon on our way. Everything is working against us. Wall-to-wall traffic. Idiotic drivers. Everything. The only positive thing is that Ysenia is in the car. If it had been Jenna, she would have talked me to death and I wouldn’t have jumped out of the car.
Crap. I forgot to message her.I quickly pull out my phone and shoot Jenna a text. In a matter of seconds, she replies back.
Jenna:You’re welcome. ;-)
I don’t even bother replying. Her meddling can end in two ways and with my luck, it’ll be the worst way. But for now, I’d just enjoy Ysenia’s company.
Chapter Five
Ysenia
When he turned around and our eyes met for the first time in years, I nearly wept. It was like a dream come true. Miguel Mancini was finally back and he had grown into one hell of a man.
At the airport, I had taken in his appearance like a love-struck pup. He towered over my five-foot-six frame by well over half a foot or so. He was wearing a casual suit with a light blue-button up shirt. His black hair is short and he has zero facial hair, which is just the way I like it. His jawline chiseled like a sculpture. When he stared down at me with piercing green eyes, I knew I was a goner.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, yanking me from my thoughts. I glance at him briefly before looking back at the car in front of us.
“Just wondering how you’re enjoying Italy.” It’s a bold-faced lie; however, I’m not prepared to tell him the truth.
“Ah,” he chuckles. “It’s not too bad. I come back to the states every ninety days so it’s more like a long-term vacation.”
“You come back to Texas?”
“Heavens no,” he shakes his head. “I have a small apartment in New York. I stay there for a week or so then return back to Italy.”
“That must be tiresome.”
“Just a bit,” he chuckles. “But it beats coming back to Texas.”
“Hate us that much?” I laugh, but he doesn’t. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he smiles. “Just a lot of history here that I prefer to stay away from.”
