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My knees buckle under the spell of the feel of her around me. I lean into the wall with both hands, pressing her tighter between me and the cold surface, just to make sure we don’t collapse.
The sheer influx of feelings floors me. I almost have to look away from those scorching, beautiful eyes that are staring at me with breathtaking, gut-wrenching intimacy.
And then she delivers the last blow that turns this game into a frantic chase for release.
“I love you, Dominic.”
* * *
Gio
A few months earlier at the gala
I hate these events. I have nothing against supporting a good cause. But why people need to small talk, eat a five-course meal and dance to donate money is beyond me. I’m happy to write a check from the comfort of my office.
Gina’s voice drills into my brain, yapping about something inconsequential. I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s my go-to avoidance mechanism, but it doesn’t always work with my family.
They expect human interactions from me—annoying, and so unnecessary. Whoever invented small talk was deranged. It’s a waste of time.
“…Mila saved the day.” Gina takes a sip of water.
The name pulls me back into the conversation, and I meet my sister-in-law’s eyes, frowning.
“London’s event planner canceled at the last minute and Mila took on the job.” Gina interprets my frown as the need for more information.
I don’t care about Mila Ward. The woman hates me. Who knows why? The few times I’ve seen her at my brother’s restaurant, she glared at me and treated me like I vomited all over her clothes.
Not that I care.
Well.
Okay.
I cared for a brief moment. She grabbed my attention the first time I laid eyes on her. In the middle of a major crisis at Casa Cassi, she held her head high and commanded the situation with a calm professionalism.
Cool, collected, beautiful. Full of grace. I don’t remember the last time watching a person riveted me, but she held my attention without even knowing it.
A queen.
From afar.
My fascination died when I heard her giggling and blabbering. Jesus.
“Excuse me.” I nod to Gina and amble away to check the markets.
Boring my eyes into the screen, I hope no one will approach me with another attempt at talk. My eyes scroll through the blinking numbers, but my attention drifts away. I look up, and my eyes land on her.
Mila Ward—all the magnetic sunshine of her—stands across the room. As soon as my gaze finds her, she looks in my direction and her eyes widen for a split second.
Unlike most of the women here, she’s not made-up and dolled-up with tons of products holding her together.
Her blue eyes pull me as if she’s the only woman in the room. I lick my lips, suddenly regretting I have a phone and not a drink in my hand. I ignore—and fail—the weird feeling in my stomach. London must have sourced bad catering.
I swallow, and in the rhythm of the music humming in the background, I lose my usual restraint and let my eyes travel down Mila’s curves.
Jesus. What is she wearing? That dress is practically pushing most of her out on display. I ball my fists, and my stomach rolls in disgust. That outfit has its purpose, and my bet is on a husband-hunting mission.
Unfortunately, I’ve met my share of gold-diggers in my life, and the way she looks right now confirms her intentions tonight.
