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“Maybe we should see what your uncle, Don Amato, has to say.” Dante finishes smoothly. “I’m sure he could sort out fact from fiction quite easily.”
Her eyes go wide and her mouth flaps open and closed for another few seconds like a fish on land. Then without another word, she spins and scurries away, shoving her way through the crowd.
I don’t realize I’m grinning widely until I turn to shake my head at Dante.
“What was that about?”
He shrugs. “You weren’t wrong. Renataisa cunt.”
My lips split into a grin. “Well, thank you?—”
In one motion, he pulls me close, cups my cheek gently in his powerful hand, and sears his lips to mine.
Leaving. Me.Floating.
A camera flashes right next to us, startling me back to reality. I flinch, but Dante holds the kiss for another half second before letting me go. We both turn, and he smiles at the professional event photographer before she wanders off to shoot more attendees.
“Image is everything,” Dante murmurs quietly.
“Yeah, no, of course…” I smile weakly. “Image. All these people and everything.”
We stand another second or two in silence before I blush and clear my throat. “Iam going to go find the bar.”
Dante gives me a quiet smile. “And I, unfortunately,” he nods with his chin to a group of old men who nod back and raises their glasses to us, “have to go talk to creepy old Italian men who’ve spent more time in brothels and basement gambling dens than in their own bedrooms.”
“Well, you should be right at home.”
He arches a sarcastic, stern brow at me as I grin at him. “My my, Mrs. Sartorre?—”
“Yeah, no, it’s still Ms. Black.”
“You should pay more attention to legal documents you sign at wedding altars,dear.”
I grin as I roll my eyes. “Which—oopsie—I never mailed in. So, you know, checkmate.”
“That’s an oversight we’ll have to correct quickly.”
“I don’t think so.”
We both pause, both of us grinning.
Jesus Christ, am I FLIRTING with him?
Yeah, I am.
It feels pretty good.
“Enjoy your creepy old men.”
“Enjoy your cocktail.”
I’m grinning from ear to ear and floating as I make my way to the bar. I daresay, I might have a little crush on my husband.
I order a glass of white wine, and I’ve just taken a sip when a young woman slips out of the crowd and stops right in front of me.
“Oh my God—Tempest?”
My brows tighten. “Yes?”
