Page 50 of Bittersweet

Thekitchen.

I’ll leave it in thekitchen.

Glancing out at the street—no people, no cars visible—I tiptoe around the counter. It’s warm in here, and I fan my face with the book before I push into the kitchen. That eerie orange glow spills outand—

The cool room door whooshes shut at the end of theroom.

Someone must be here. There’s a burglar in Elio’s coolroom.

Oh myGod.

My heart gives a heavy thump in mychest.

I should run. I should race upstairs, grab my phone, and alert the authorities becausesomeone is inside Elio’s café. I should rush over to the cool room door and lock it, trapping the perpetrator inside for the police when they do eventuallycome.

That’s what I shoulddo.

Instead?

Iscream.

The kind of loud, bloodcurdling scream they do in the horror movies. The kind of scream that could break windows, alert all the dogs in the neighborhood, and wake up anyneighbors.

If there were any neighbors to wakeup.

If the neighbor in question hadn’t instead alerted the burglar to herpresence.

The cool room door fliesopen—

And there’sElio.

Air rushes from mylungs.

A red and white checked dishtowel is slung over his shoulder, and pants cover his legs. No shirt, noshoes.

That’sall.

Elio isshirtless.

His body is amazing. His shoulders are broad, lined with muscle, and those abs—you could bake a tart on them; they’re smoking hot. Two delicious lines of a V disappear into his jeans, pointing to the PromisedLand.

Sign meup.

Take me tochurch.

I’mconverted.

My mouth runs dry. Heat flushes my chest, my cheeks, and I know it has nothing to do with the flannelette pajamas and the crazy heat that’s emanating from this room, and everything to do with the half-naked hottie standing in front ofme.

“Romy?” He frowns, concern in his eyes. “Are youokay?”

No, I want to reply.No, you’re not supposed to look that good without a shirt. You had me at muffins; why do you have to look even better than . . . better than Marc Moretti when you’re half-naked, and not just because you’re a good few feettaller?

“Romy?” He steps closer, slowly, as if I might freak out and run at any moment, and that’s more than fair because I might. “Are you allright?”

“Yes. Fine. It’s fine. You’re fine.” Oh, kill me. Why did I have to open my mouth? I take a quick breath, and try pulling myself together. “I mean, I’m fine. You’re also fine. I guess. Are youfine?”

“I’m fine.” He nods, and that sexy grin I remember from the time I tasted his private wares in this same kitchen lights hisface.