Page 70 of Enzo

When we reached the door of the guesthouse, Enzo stopped, but before I could question him, he bent down and scooped me into his arms.

“What are you doing?” I squealed when he resumed his stride as if I weighed nothing.

“Carrying you over the threshold,” he said seriously. “I should have done that yesterday.”

I let out a strangled laugh.

“Like park in front of your garage and then carry me in?”

“Exactly.”

I chuckled, but a part of me got all warm and gooey. “Don’t be silly. Men don’t carry their wives across the threshold anymore.”

“I don’t care what other men do,mia anima.” I really loved it when he called me that, now that I’d made a concerted effort to move forward from all our drama. And combined with the possessive way he was looking at me, the roughness of his voice sent electricity charging down my spine.

Once inside the cottage, he didn’t put me down. Instead, he carried me like some absurdly romantic tourist souvenir, parading through the rooms with casual pride. The front dooropened into a hallway that led into a living room, where aged terracotta tiles stretched beneath our feet and gauzy curtains billowed lazily at the windows. Wicker chairs and mismatched cushions gave it that charming, curated-by-nature look. It smelled faintly of lemons and old wood.

We moved through a narrow archway into the kitchen—a cozy, rustic space with stone countertops, copper pots hanging above the stove, and a bowl of limes sitting ripe on the table. The bathroom came next, all cool tiles and a claw-foot tub. Finally, we reached the bedroom. Moonlight filtered through wooden shutters, casting slatted patterns across the white linens of the one, modest bed. The walls were bare except for a single framed print of the Sicilian coast, slightly crooked.

“One bedroom,” he finally said, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “One bed.”

“I’m claiming it!”

“Good,” he drawled. “Now, I need a promise.”

“Don’t push your luck, Italian.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t remind me I was also half Italian. “Promise me no matter how mad I make you, no cats.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t bring an EpiPen?” I fluttered my eyelashes innocently. “That was dumb, you know,” I said, patting his chest.

“Penelope,” he growled, exasperated.

“Okay, okay. I solemnly swear I won’t allow any cats around you.”

“Much appreciated,” he retorted dryly. “I’d rather not die anytime soon. At least not until I get to taste my wife one more time.” My cheeks reddened, and he trailed a finger down the length of my neck. “You blushing is the most adorable thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Clearing my throat, I tilted my chin toward the bed and said, “Now about the one bed?—”

“I already told you, nothing has to happen, but we sleep together.”

It would seem he was dead serious.

“It’s a hardship,” I said, sighing.

“It doesn’t have to be. It can be all pleasure.” His voice held dark promises, and I clenched my thighs together in response. He held me so close I could smell his aftershave, and I wanted to bury my nose in his neck, to get lost in him.

But I had to stay on track. It was important we be honest with each other, now that we’d agreed to give it a real shot.

Because, sure—I wouldn’t mind sex with Enzo. He’d already shown me what I stood to gain from it, so long as I replaced my memories of the masked stranger with the man standing before me, but I didn’t want to give the impression that every wrong could be righted with sex. I wanted us to take it slow, but not too slow.

Because I’d waited too long to get laid, and now that I’d tasted pleasure, I craved it. I wanted to try it all.

Inhaling a deep breath and digging deep for the courage to speak my truth, I finally said, “I want to get to know you better. To be… romanced.”

He shrugged, like it was the easiest request he’d ever heard. “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

I opened my mouth when a sound interrupted.