Page 16 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

LORENA

W ell, it looks like Santino is more calculated than I gave him credit for. Here I was thinking he was being nice making me breakfast with no agenda attached to the much appreciated gesture. But I know that look smeared all over his annoyingly handsome face.

Over the years, I’ve picked up on a lot of his mannerisms, and I know that whenever there’s something on his mind, he acts the way he is right now.

Rubbing his palms together, staring off into space with this concentrated look on his face as he moves his mouth slightly, as if he’s rehearsing what he’s about to say.

He usually stays like this for a few seconds, sometimes longer, depending on what he has on his mind.

Then it graduates to him biting at his bottom lip or gnawing at his tongue piercing, like he’s doing right now.

Butterflies fill my stomach as I watch him.

He looks so fucking hot toying with the surgical steel barbell.

Though the more he messes with it, that flutter in my stomach graduates to a sinking feeling because I know what’s coming next.

I can feel it. It was delusional to think that the way we left things would stay unaddressed forever.

My suspicions are confirmed as to what he wants to talk about when he lets out an exhale, that starts as a sigh and ends in my name sounding like a burden on his tongue.

The air in my throat constricts, making me feel momentarily dizzy, as he takes it a step further, following up with a ‘ I’ve been wanting to tell you…’ He goes on to say something else, but I don’t process it. I’m already trying to shut this conversation down.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” I say, witnessing in real-time his shoulders – and hopes – deflate. “Especially not here.” Or ever.

“Why the fuck not, Lorena?” There’s a sense of urgency and desperation in his voice, even as he takes a second to adjust his tone. “This is the most we’ve spoken to each other since…”

“You ruined a potential work opportunity for me,” I interrupt him, “by punching Chef DeStefano in the face.” I purposely leave out the other part of what happened before said work opportunity was ruined.

The part where we were alone, just Tino and me, in the club’s bathroom, with me on my knees, ready and wanting to suck his dick.

Back to when he stopped me before I could finish unzipping his pants, telling me I was too drunk and that it was a mistake.

A “ big mistake ” is actually what he said.

I’m getting embarrassed and hurt all over again thinking about it. “Your jealousy, over nothing, cost me a job.”

The look in his face shifts once more, this time to complete confusion.

“What do you mean, a job?”

“Exactly what I just said, a job. My job. You know, what I do for a living. I was at the club that night because that’s where Luca DeStefano wanted to meet.

I was so close to getting him to sign the contract with me to become his publicist, and then you had to storm over and punch him in the face, acting like a crazed boyfriend. ”

Tino doesn’t flinch at a word I said, instead he remains pensive, as if he’s replaying what happened and piecing it together himself.

And for whatever reason, despite me being the one to initially say I don’t want to talk about it, my mouth moves faster than my mind can keep up with, and I continue pressing the topic.

“I mean, this isn’t exactly new. You never seem happy with the prospect of anyone near me.

But what I don’t understand is why you get that way.

It would make sense if you wanted to fuck me.

” Um, was there truth serum laced in those eggs he made me?

Why can’t I seem to stop, even though my throat is tightening the more the words find their way out?

“You made it clear, while I was on my knees for you, that I was, what did you say? Hmm, yes, I remember…a mistake. So please, enlighten me as to why you would act like that, causing such a scene, and in turn causing a fucking shit storm in your career over a mistake?”

My question is met with silence. I doubt he was expecting me to go all in like I did.

Truthfully, neither was I. Although that night has been on the forefront of my mind more than I’d like to admit, I swore I’d never address it with him.

That was before I knew how seeing him again would affect me.

Worse than ever before, making me hate that I want him almost as much as I want nothing to do with him.

“Santino Amato…” His name rolls off my tongue, caught between sounding like a prayer and a curse. “I swear to all that is holy, if you don’t speak up right now, and speak your damn piece. I will…”

He cuts me off, and there’s a renewed vibrancy laced within his tone. “So, you weren’t fucking him?”

“Seriously? After everything I just said, that’s what you are clinging on to?”

He nods his head, rather nonchalantly, at that.

“No, I wasn’t fucking him or had any plans to. Like I said, it was all business.”

The breath of relief that leaves him is once again another misleading signal. This is how it’s always been between us. Hot and cold. All signs point to yes, only to turn into a no.

“ So he never touched you beyond having his slimy hand on your lower back?”

I try to recall the evening in my head, to fact check his question. I don’t remember Chef DeStefano having his hand on me like Tino does. “No. I told you I was there on business. Well, and to have a few drinks. I was multitasking.” Sadly, not as much as I wanted to, since he denied me.

“Thank god.” Tino does the sign of the cross, and if I wasn’t so confused by his reaction, I’d laugh, given that I know he is not religious whatsoever. “Because I’d have to kill him if that weren’t the case. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Heat travels to my cheeks, warming them for a split second before it continues its tumultuous dance down my throat, holding the words that want to come out in response hostage.

Hearing him vocalize his jealousy is doing things to me that it shouldn’t.

Things that are making it incredibly difficult to show restraint and not jump his bones right here and now.

Not like he deserves that. If it ever comes to that between us, he’s going to have to beg for it. I refuse to be made a fool again.

Taking a second or two to compose myself, I swallow down the tight feeling in my throat to speak. “This is what I’m talking about. You’d kill him? Please. You could kiss your career and freedom goodbye.”

“It’s just a phrase, Lo. Calm down.”

“I am calm.” Well, partially. This conversation is making me feel a multitude of emotions, but if I need to speak it into existence and gaslight myself into believing I’m calm, then so be it.

“Saying phrases ” — I air-quote as I say it to drive home my point— “like that will only continue to get you in trouble. I’m a grown woman, I can take care of myself, stop worrying about me, and what I do. This has to stop.”

“What does?”

“You sabotaging things.”

His brows lift, motioning for me to continue.

“That goes for my life and yours.”

“Sorry, I’m never going to stop looking at you as…”

“Tomás’ sister.” I finish his sentence for him, reminding him and myself of who I am.

“Who right now is your publicist, slash manager, slash…I don’t know, media liaison.

I’m basically what’s going to help you maintain appearances, so come June when the James Beard Foundation has their awards, you will hopefully receive one.

All while the owners of Apolito Market see how well you’ve behaved yourself and have your line on store shelves. Comprende?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods obediently with a sense of eagerness that I’d find endearing if I wasn’t so flustered.

I redirect both of our attention to the list attached to the clipboard.

“Pick it up.”

A devilish smirk works his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he says again.

“Are you going to keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

Of course, he’s playing coy.

“The ‘yes ma’am’, shit.”

“Well, what would you rather have me call you?”

Good girl, mine, mama…to name a few.

“What you’ve always called me?” I ask rhetorically.

He mumbles a response I can’t quite make out.

“Excuse me? Care to say that louder?” He doesn’t need to; I know what he said. Off-limits .

Butterflies reemerge in my stomach rendering my speechless.

Thankfully, he shifts the conversation away from the dead end its reached and points to the list. “I thought the line was on hold until they see I can stay out of trouble?”

“From what Tomás briefed me on in the contract, the decision to have the line itself on shelves is what’s on hold, but nothing about making the final selections for the line are, and since you’re going to be behaving yourself…

” My voice drifts, as I tilt my head waiting for him to agree.

“Right?” I ask, and he nods in agreement.

“Why not see it through? Manifest it coming to fruition.”

“Fine.” He doesn’t seem or sound convinced.

“Good boy,” slips from my mouth, and the grin it earns me sends a pulse to my center.

And here I was worrying about him. Clearly, I’m also the one who has to behave.

“Now that we are on the same page, aside from the selections for the cookware line, the next thing we should prioritize is finalizing what you will be serving when the judge stops by next week for the second round of judging for the James Beard Award.”

“Already on it,” he quips.

“Good. Now I’m going to work on linking our calendars so we can keep track of your upcoming appearances, that way I can see when a good time will be to do a livestream at home. Well, at Tomás’.”

Uncertainty strikes his features, as I catch in the corner of my eye him beginning to play with the strings of the apron he has folded down at the waist.

With a pout of my lips, I go on. “You can’t tell me you’ve forgotten where you started.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then what’s the problem?”