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I grin.
“See you at breakfast, sweetheart.”
She flushes bright red, but then I close the door with a smile. Fuck, that was good. The curvy girl is going to be mine, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
6
Ryan
I blast myself with cold water and make myself stay under the spray until my hardness subsides a bit. The entire time, Regina’s face dances before my eyes. She’s so goddamn beautiful, and I love getting a tease out of her too. But this isn’t the time to let my imagination wander.
I step out of the shower and pull on comfortable jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Then, I slip into deck shoes and make my way down to the kitchen. When Regina arrives a short while later, the omelets are done and I’m putting toast on the plates. None of the kids have made an appearance yet. Then again, what would they do if they knew their luscious new nanny had just spent the night ensconced in their father’s arms?
I grin at her, and she blushes. I love the way her pale skin shows every emotion. She’s wearing a tank top which hugs her curves, and the fabric is thin enough such that if I stare, I can see the outline of her nipples. Gorgeous.
Carrying the food, I stride into the main dining room.
“Coming?”
Obediently, she trails behind me and sits down across the table. This is nice. I’d love to start all my days across the table from this beautiful woman. Preferably, after she’s sated and wrung out from a hard workout in bed, courtesy of me.
Regina sips at a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of her. I leave for the kitchen and return with some waffles, and then I leave again to return with a carafe of coffee. She hasn’t started eating. I assume she’s thinking about something, and sure enough, as soon as I sit down, she peppers me with a question.
“Why did you undress me last night?”
Because you were so gorgeous there on my bed and I had to see you lush and nude.
“Because you’d been running around all day dealing with the kids in the midst of panic and I thought you deserved a comfortable night’s sleep. Your clothes were a bit sweaty and dirty, sweetheart, from being worn two days in a row.”
Sweaty? Dirty? God, I’d love to be both of those things with her. I grin again and can’t help but add, “And it was very, very nice to see something beautiful instead of something covered with soot and ash.”
Her blush gets worse and she looks down. But then her next words surprise me to my core.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Blythe. I was just so tired I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”
What? Where is this coming from? I touched her in her sleep and narrowly avoided pounding deep into that curvy body. Yet, she’s the one apologizing.
I sit back, sighing.
“Regina, there’s no need to apologize. We just escaped a massive wildfire, and we were all tired. You did nothing wrong.”
She nods, still nibbling at a piece of fruit. I get the feeling she would apologize to a mugger for only having ten dollars on her.
“Do you like your omelet?” I ask, changing the subject.
She takes a bite and her expression grows blissful.
“Oh my God, Ryan. That… You… That might be the best omelet I’ve ever tasted.”
I smile.
“It’s the drugs I put in with the bell peppers.”
She smiles shyly.
“Well, I could always use some extra money, so if you need a street level dealer to move your stash, let me know.”
I grin like an idiot and to stop, I take a sip of orange juice.
“So you like my omelet, then?”
This time, it’s her eyes that twinkle playfully.
“My, my, my,” she chuckles. “Are you fishing for praise?”
But I’m not shy about these kinds of things.
“Of course I am. My family is filled with cooks and food is… How the hell do I say this? Food is the standard by which everyone in my family is judged. That’s a little harsh but we actually do have closely guarded secrets, and recipes that won’t be passed down until after death—all that kind of stuff. Back in Sicily, we—”
“Is she real?”
I stare at her for a second, trying to follow, but I have no idea who Regina is talking about. “Is who real?”
“The grandmother from Mama Pasta. You know, the one who owned the vineyard in your commercials.”
I laugh.
“That’s actually the number one question I got for a year after that commercial came out. Nonna Elena is real, but she’s my great-grandmother, not grandmother. Despite our age difference, I actually got to meet her before she died. She was almost ninety and I was twelve. It was my first trip to Italy, and she did all the cooking.”
