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“Jesus,” I groan, tilting my head back toward the ceiling.

Nightmares. They’ve been relentless lately. So vivid, so terrifying—I don’t think I’ve slept properly in days.

A flash of lightning spills into the room. I rub a tired hand over my face and sigh.

A storm.

I usually love the rain, but I’ve never been able to sleep through Mediterranean storms. It has a lot to do with the accident that happened when I was a little girl—one of the reasons Papá decided to fly us across the ocean.

I throw the blanket off my legs and head for the kitchen. When I wake during a storm, there’s only one thing that eases my nerves: hot milk. I don’t know what it is, but the warmth calms me. Grounds me. Makes me feel safe.

My bare feet touch the cool marble as I move quietly through the dark halls and down the stairs. But as I round the corner into the kitchen, I come to a sudden halt at the sight of a shirtless man leaning against the counter, a cup in his hand.

“Shit,” I hiss, turning to make a run for it. The milk will have to wait. The last thing I need right now is to be alone with a half-naked Matteo Davacalli.

“Maria,” he calls after me. “You don’t need to leave. I only came for some water.”

I curse under my breath, briefly closing my eyes before turning back to face him, a smile plastered on my face. I walk over to the counter, nerves skittering through my body.

“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be up at this time.” I shift on my feet uncomfortably. I try to keep my eyes on his face, but his chest is on full display—and it’s hard to focus when you have a masterpiece in front of you.

Oh my God. No. I cannot be thinking about him like that. He’s my father-in-law. Well, soon to be.

“No need to apologize. This is your home, Maria. I’m merely a guest here.” He gestures toward the fridge behind him. “Did you want some milk?”

My eyes go wide, feeling a little too exposed. “How did you know that I…”

“You used to sleep over at my home quite frequently, once upon a time. I’m not a man who forgets details about people.” He holds my gaze with great intensity. “Warm milk calms you during storms. Allow me.”

Before I can stop him, he goes to the fridge, pulls out a carton of milk, and pours it into a cup. He microwaves it while I stand on the other side of the counter, silently watching him.

I am well aware that I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, in the middle of the night, with my future father-in-law—who just so happens to be shirtless. I don’t miss the way his muscles flex as he reaches up to retrieve the cup from the microwave. When he turns to face me, I quickly avert my gaze from his body.

Why did it suddenly get hot in here?

“Here you go.” He slides the cup toward me.

I accept it with a small smile. “Thank you. I should head back to bed.”

I don’t want to stay and make small talk with this man. Ever since my brief encounter with him at the wake, I’ve wanted to avoid him as much as possible. Something happens to me internally whenever I’m near him, and I don’t understand it. That’s why I don’t like it.

“See you in the morning, Mr. Davacalli.” I turn and begin to walk away from the counter.

“Maria,” he calls just as I’m about to turn into the foyer.

I pause and glance over my shoulder. There’s something in his eyes—something raw, threaded with deep emotion.

“He’s a good boy, my son. He’ll take care of you well.”

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. “I’m sure he will. Goodnight, Mr. Davacalli.”

“Goodnight, Maria.”

And with that, I turn—hot milk in hand—and scurry toward the stairs, feeling this strange fluttering sensation in my chest. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I have no idea if it’s fear, intrigue, or a mixture of both.

All I know is that Matteo Davacalli is not a man I should be alone with. And I should avoid him at all costs.

But how is that even possible, when I’m literally marrying into his family within the coming week?