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Jessie
WHENIWOKEthe next day, my body was sore and my heart still too tender from my shocking encounter with Renzo on the beach the night before—and the exhausting aftermath. It didn’t take me long to realise I’d slept through my alarm.
I forced myself out of bed, to finish packing. Why hadn’t I finished packing last night? Instead of indulging in a pointless crying jag?
After locking up the cottage, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and pulled my phone out, planning to call a cab to pick me up at the chateau gates, when a notification popped up, reminding me I was supposed to be briefing the new chef this morning before I left.
Panic made my palms sweat as I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
How could I have forgotten? It was close to seven o’clock, but the guy wasn’t due to arrive until nine, because I had also planned to cook Renzo one last breakfast.
But I didn’t want to see Renzo again, since I was way too shaky still about last night.
I had wanted closure. And that was what I’d achieved, I decided. Just in a much more graphic way than I had intended.
But I couldn’t quite let go of my professional responsibility to do a good job—for the man I was about to run away from.
So I raced up to the house, ignoring all the places my body still ached. After dumping my backpack in the entrance hall, ready to make a quick getaway, I dashed to the kitchens, taking the long route through the house to avoid passing the doorway to the downstairs gym where Renzo would already be working with his physio.
My chest tightened as I walked into the cavernous kitchen which I had made my own in the past five weeks.
I stared stupidly at the pots of herbs I’d been growing on the windowsill, the shelves neatly stacked with the preserves, sauces and spice mixes I had made.
I wrote a quick note for the new chef, giving him my contact details so he could call me over the next few days while he settled in. Then I set about making a tray of home-made granola, fresh fruit and coffee which I could get one of the cleaning crew to take to Renzo’s suite when he had finished his workout... By which time I planned to be miles away.
But just as I was quartering some fresh figs, a low voice from the doorway sent alarm skittering through my system.
‘Buon giorno, Principessa.’
The loud clatter of the knife dropping onto the board was nowhere near as loud as the clattering of my own heartbeat.
Renzo was propped casually against the kitchen door frame. The black T-shirt and dark blue jeans, the clean-shaven jaw and the way his emerald eyes seemed to smile at me, as his gaze skated over me, made him look even more like the playboy I had once known. Which did not help one bit with my galloping pulse.
‘Hi, I... I thought you’d be in the gym,’ I said, my heart throbbing so hard now I could barely breathe.
Had we really made love last night in the cove?
Not made love, I corrected myself swiftly. Had wild, frantic sex.
I might have been able to convince myself I’d imagined the whole thing, if not for the residual hum of sensation triggered by his presence now. Or the tug of emotion which became a vicious yank when he pushed away from the door frame and limped into the room.
‘I had more important business here,’ he said as he sat on one of the stools on the corner of the large kitchen island. He was so close now I could smell the tangy citrus scent of his shampoo, see the flicker of knowledge and arousal in his gaze.
‘Surely there’s nothing more important than your physiotherapy,’ I mumbled, grabbing the knife again, determined to ignore the huge lump forming in my throat.
If only I could have avoided seeing him again. But nothing could ever be easy where Renzo was concerned, apparently.
He leant over, took the knife from my grasp and placed it back on the board. Then he picked up my hand in warm, callused fingers and gave it a gentle tug, forcing my gaze to his.
‘Do you know why I do the therapy?’ he asked me.
I frowned, the non sequitur confusing me.
‘To get better,’ I said. Was this a trick question? Why hadn’t I just run when I had the chance?
He stroked his thumb over the back of my hand. The contact was both gentle and yet electrifying, and I couldn’t control the shiver of reaction.
A smile twitched on his lips. And I knew he had felt it too.
