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“Wh-what? What are you talking about?”
“All the things we will offer our guests. That we’ll take away business from you?”
“I-I . . .” She yanked her hands out of my grasp. “I can’t think when you’re holding my hands.”
I wiggled my eyebrows at her. “Nice to see Idoaffect you.”
“Oh! Shut up!” She shoved me. “Get over yourself, Michael. I’m Italian,” she sneered. “I need my hands to talk.”
“Ah. Okay. Please,” I said, turning my hand over. “Proceed.”
She scoffed. “You’re annoying. I don’t remember what I was saying.”
I smirked. I knew I was getting under her skin. And for some sick and twisted reason, I was enjoying our sparring match. “You were saying,” I began for her, “you don’t like the fact our hotels offer our guests the best amenities available.”
“That’s not what I said. It’s not about that.”
I kept quiet. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Most of the time. I wasn’t about to dig the hole even deeper for myself. I needed to politely wait for her to finish what she wanted to say. Then, I could figure out a way to fix it. Or finagle her over to my side.
She threw her hands up again, in that true virtuoso Italian spirit. “It’s all too much. Why can’t you build something simple and natural? I don’t get why everything has to be done so outrageously.”
“We want to offer the best things for our guests, Siena. Isn’t that what you and your grandparents aim to do?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” I scoffed. “Please.”
“Okay, yes. That is our goal.”
“Then give it a rest. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
Her eyes bugged out as she put her hands on her hips, elbows sticking out. “I amnotthrowing stones!”
I laughed at her. Standing there like she was, she knew I had her.
“Ugh! Whatever, Michael!”
“Now, now. Don’t get your panties twisted.”
“Ha!” She stuck a finger in my face. “They’re not twisted, ’cause . . .” She caught herself, trapped by her sensuous mouth, and, hopefully, her dirty mind.
“’Cause why?” I raised a brow. She had piqued my interest. My imagination was running wild over her slip of the tongue. Mmm, her tongue. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her mouth now as my mind wandered.Thong? G-string? Commando?My eyes rolled heavenward.Oh, dear Lord!
“Nothing,” she brushed me off, not finishing her sentence.
“What?” I asked as I silently begged,Please, please, please finish the sentence.
“Anyway,” she evaded, and started walking again.
I couldn’t help but try to sneak another peek to get a good, solid look at her panty line. Or lack thereof.
Oh, damn. No line.
I smiled after her, adjusted myself . . . again . . . and followed where she led.
Her grandparents’ house stood a short distance away. The stonework was incredible and provided an impression of strength and stability, fortified with what I had already learned from the three of them was unconditional love. A strong structure that held all the memories of their family, their history, their legacy. Three archways enclosed the balcony on the second story, pillars dissecting the arches.
I wondered which window was hers. Wondered if the inside of the house would feel just as warm and welcoming as it looked on the outside. I detected a flowery perfume sweetening the air, a hint of night-blooming jasmine that must have just closed its buds with the sunrise. It was mixed with the hint of orange blossoms, the same smell I couldn’t help but notice every time I drove through the area.
