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There is a photo of a couple getting married. The man is incredibly handsome, and based on his features he must be Gio’s father. It’s his parents’ wedding picture.
Two other wedding photos stand beside each other. One is of a beautiful couple. The woman is a famous model, Nora Flemming. It’s the next pic that surprises me. It’s Massi and Gina’s first wedding. They look so young.
I take in the room, needing to confirm where I really am. He keeps these mementoes of happy moments of his family and friends, and it’s so at odds with the man that I step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder.
I hurry to the window, because I want to see my first private garden in New York—I didn’t believe they existed. Also, staring out of the window feels less intimate.
The landscaping is simple, with an English lawn and trees. They look lonely and bare this time of the year, but I can imagine this yard is an oasis when in full flourish.
Gio walks in, but I don’t turn, surprised by the colorful discovery in the far corner of the garden. “You have beehives?”
“You discovered my secret.”
I jump, his voice much closer than I realized. He stands behind me to the side, not necessarily in my space, but still too close for comfort. His smoky and spicy masculine scent reaches me, raw and enticing.
I force myself not to move, because I don’t want him to know what effect he has on me. I can’t even define the effect, but it’s a mixture of pleasure and disdain.
“Do you have a beekeeper, a housekeeper, a groundskeeper and other keepers?” I resort to mockery.
“Are you judging my lifestyle?” He steps closer to stand beside me, and this time I step aside. Only slightly, but still. The man draws the worst out of me. And he is my boss currently, so there is that. Screw the goosebumps liberally covering my skin.
“Judge away. You’re right, I have all those keepers, a driver, a cook, a trainer, a pilot, a personal stripper.”
My eyes widen and I chance a look at him. He’s staring at me with hooded eyes. Dark brown and bottomless. Oh, God help me, the dimples make their appearance. It’s like his appeal grows with my desperate effort to deny it.
The sight of humor pulling at the corners of his mouth is addictive. I just got a taste, and I really want to experience more of it.
I grin at him. “I can’t imagine the reference check for a personal stripper position. What a hardship.”
He chuckles and then shakes his head again, as if disturbed by such a display of normalcy. We stare out the window in silence, and an unexpected feeling of companionship descends on me.
We’re sharing a moment—I don’t even know what the moment is—but there is no tension, no need to deliver, no goals and results, none of his arrogance or my self-doubt. It’s just us, taking a break.
“I don’t have a beekeeper.” The words ring like a secret admission.
I don’t turn to look at him or acknowledge I even heard him.You discovered my secret. His voice, so sharp usually, softened at its edges, and I wish he would continue.
“It’s my hobby.” He fidgets, putting his hands into his pockets. It might be a casual stance, but it feels like a fortifying position to hide his unease. Though I don’t understand why he would offer the information if it makes him feel vulnerable.
“You’re a beekeeper?” I don’t want to sound incredulous or mocking, but I fail. Jesus.
He chuckles. It’s a low rumble and it hits me like a beautiful melody. Maybe it’s because he never does, but every time he chuckles feels like a special reward.
“It’s the only way I can dress like an astronaut.”
I whip my head around and there they are again. The dimples. The smile reaches his eyes, and the dark abyss shines with mischief. I’m so taken aback by this layer of him that I blink a few times, but my smile stretches farther.
“I’m pretty sure you can get a real astronaut uniform to wear in your spare time.” I bite my lip, but this unexpected showcase of personality amuses me too much, and I can’t help but grin at him.
“It’s called a spacesuit, Mila.” He sounds more like the Gio I know, but the spark is still in his eyes.
“I’m sorry. Though I’m pretty sure it’s not only about the suit. Is this some sort of stand in eco-activism?”
“God no.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m too selfish to take a stand on things I can’t influence.” I want him to smile like this more, but he turns to face the garden again. “The buzz and the gentleness are soothing. The hive is a box of calm in the middle of a busy life. Holding a frame of bees, I have to move slowly, holding something precious in my hands. I have to breathe.”
Every word is like a caress, slowly peeling off a layer to uncover a man I’ve just met. I like the man. Oh, I really do. Jesus, the last thing I need is to develop a real crush. But then he continues, and I have to keep reminding myself this is the man who’s usually rude, dates socialites, and disrespects me. A man who called me a hooker.
“I always have to rely on myself.” His voice is a pleasant rumble. “So I guess the hierarchy, the hive mentality speaks to me. I can be at peace with nature in the middle of the city. I learn from them. A queen is the leader, but she knows her role without interfering. I try to lead the same way.”
