Page 49 of Italian Weddings

A FTER THREE DAYS OF clearly getting the brush off, Salvatore was beyond annoyed. He was irritated, frustrated, confused and worried. Yes, worried. Because Emilia’s silence was as uncharacteristic as it was clear.

What was less clear for Salvatore was the reasoning behind it.

Not particularly prone to giving much thought to a woman’s feelings—he’d never had the need—he’d found himself thinking back on the last time he’d seen Emilia and trying to work out if he’d said or done something wrong.

Or if she’d said or done something to indicate that she was annoyed with him.

Sick of him, them, and what they were doing?

His gut twisted at that and his chest rolled with something new – a sense of dented pride. Was it possible he’d become more wrapped up in what they were doing than she was? Possible she was over it. Before him?

The thought left him cold, because in truth, this thing with Emilia was still a raging fire in his bloodstream.

He fully accepted the necessity of walking away at the end of their agreed upon month, but that was still a couple of weeks away.

They had time left. Time to enjoy this, to get it out of their systems.

So why the hell was she wasting it? Why wasn’t she answering his calls?

He had no option but to accept Emilia’s decision—and he would—but first, he wanted to understand it.

Which was how, one evening, Salvatore came to find himself breaking one of their agreed upon rules and pressing the buzzer for her apartment, staring resolutely ahead as he waited for her to answer.

His jaw was clenched tight and, in the back of his mind, he knew there was risk here.

Risk in coming to her place, risk in doing so without a discussion first. Risk that he'd be seen, that she might not be alone.

Yet in that moment, he didn’t give a flying fuck.

He had to see her, to understand what the hell was going on.

“Hello?”

Her voice—just that single word—breathed something inside his chest that made everything better, and worse.

“It’s me.”

Silence.

He imagined her then, frowning, almost as if she’d forgotten who he was. He pressed his finger to the intercom. “I swear to God, Emilia, if you don’t let me up, I will start ringing every other buzzer until someone opens this door.”

Her response was to press the buzzer. He kept his shoulders squared and his jaw clenched as he rode the elevator to her apartment, ignoring the slight misgivings he felt at having pushed a trusted mutual acquaintance into giving him Emilia’s address.

He was pretty sure that had broken one of their rules, too, but hell.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and if she was going to blank him, then he was going to fight for answers. He deserved that much.

When the elevator doors pinged open, Emilia was standing just inside her apartment, with the door held open, and just the sight of her made his whole body catch fire.

She hadn’t had time to change, so she was just wearing a pair of bike shorts and an over-sized t-shirt.

Her feet were bare, so too her face of make up, and her long hair was out and loose, dragged over one shoulder.

Her expression was pinched, her eyes wary, as though he was the last person she wanted to see.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she hissed, contradicting herself by gesturing for him to step inside. But for some reason, he hovered on the threshold. Perhaps because he knew the rules they’d crafted were important, and that breaking them was somehow doing something they couldn’t easily undo.

“You gave me little choice.”

Her eyes flashed to his, anger unmistakable in their depths. “I beg your pardon?”

His nostrils flared. “So you should.”

“Are you actually annoyed at me?”

He felt the ground slipping a little beneath him.

She seemed so surprised that he’d be annoyed – like she didn’t think he had any right.

Which left him with only one conclusion.

She really didn’t care if she saw him again.

To hell with what they’d agreed. To hell with the fact he felt like she’d become the breath he needed to survive.

“Would you get in here?” she demanded, clearly exasperated, as she reached out and grabbed his arm. He was way bigger than her, so when she tugged on him, he didn’t move. “Someone will see you,” she said, looking furtively down the deserted corridor.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he didn’t give a shit, but that wasn’t strictly true.

Besides, he’d come here for answers, and that wasn’t a conversation he particularly wanted to have in a public space.

So he stepped forward, brushing past her as he entered the foyer of her apartment, ignoring the way his body immediately took that as a promise of something more.

His cock strained in his pants, so hungry for her, his whole body felt as though it were experiencing a form of torture, because this wasn’t the time for sex. And Salvatore was someone who always had time for sex.

“What the hell is going on?” he growled, at liberty to give voice to his frustrations now they were behind the closed door of her home.

Hanging on the wall just behind Emilia was a family portrait, taken when she was perhaps eleven or twelve, and featuring her two brothers and parents.

His gut rolled at the visible reminder of her Valentino-ness, and the very stark reasons they should both have been smart enough to walk away from this.

“What do you mean?” her voice was arctic. Arctic in a way he’d never heard it. Cold like ice. Resolutely distant.

His skin itched with impatience, and that need to understand grew.

“Have you lost your phone?”

She just stared at him, lips compressed, chin jutting defiantly.

It only made him angrier.

“Changed your number?”

Her eyes fluttered shut briefly.

“Had a stroke and forgotten how to text, or return a call?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, which made his cock—which clearly couldn’t read the room—jump optimistically. Her breasts, sweetly rounded, were clearly visible beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. He forced himself to hold her gaze, even when he really, really wanted to look elsewhere.

“I needed a break.”

He frowned, momentarily perplexed. “From me?” He heard the arrogance of the question the second he’d asked it, but he couldn’t exactly call the words back. Besides, it was true. He’d never once been walked out on. He’d never once had a woman end things with him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Is it seriously so hard for you to fathom that I might just want some space?”

Memories of their time together filtered through his mind at lightning speed. Every touch, look, laugh, and heated glance. Every spark, every bliss. He had enough experience to know he hadn’t imagined any of that. Then, there was her admission, that being with him filled her with light.

“Yes.”

She laughed, but the sound was completely lacking humour.

“I know I’m not imagining this.”

Something shifted on her expression then, so for a second he saw beneath the veneer she was projecting to a real emotion. Uncertainty. Confusion.

“Imagining what?”

Now it was Salvatore who hesitated, choosing his words with care. Even without thinking this through, he was aware something was changing. The easy arrangement they’d formed two weeks ago no longer seemed totally without danger.

Did he face that head on, or act as though nothing had changed for him?

“I can’t get enough of you, okay? There. I said it. I can’t get enough of you. And I know you feel the same way about me—you’ve said as much. So why the hell have you spent the last three days icing me out, Emilia?”

She flinched then, skin paling beneath her tan, and again he saw that uncertainty cross her features. He was glad he’d come here. Glad he’d decided to confront her on this. He wasn’t sure why she’d run away from him, but there was no way he could leave this stone unturned.

“I saw you, the other night.” She didn’t meet his eyes, so wouldn’t have seen the confusion on his features.

“What? What other night?”

She twisted her fingers in front of her. “At the gala. In the library.”

He frowned, twisting that night over in his mind, trying to work out why having seen him would be a problem. “You knew I was going. Why is it a problem that you saw me there?”

“I saw who you were with,” she muttered, cheeks flushing with pink.

He shook his head, totally at a loss, until he remembered. “Becca.”

Emilia shrugged. “I don’t know her name.”

“Becca,” he repeated, something unfamiliar churning inside of his gut. Guilt. Regret. Because while he knew that nothing had happened, on reflection, their friendship and intimacy would have seemed…obvious, to anyone caring to look. “She’s a family friend.”

Emilia tilted her chin. “Just a friend?”

He clamped his lips together, that same unfamiliar emotion churning in his belly. “Now, yes.”

“But you’ve slept with her.”

“We did, yes.”

Emilia’s throat shifted visibly as she swallowed and for a second, she looked so vulnerable, another new emotion surged through him.

A strong, protective instinct, that made him want to wrap her up in a huge hug and hold her tight, tell her everything was okay.

That it would always be okay, because he’d make sure of it.

The whole idea of that was singularly terrifying, so instead, he held his ground. But when he spoke, his voice was softer, more placating. “I can’t change my past, Emilia.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I saw an old friend, and I spoke to her. I did not kiss her, I did not sleep with her. It was just two people catching up, that’s all.”

“I saw the way you looked at her. The way she looked at you.”

“And it bothered you.”

Emilia’s gaze sparked like fire when it met his. “What the hell do you think?” Her hands were trembling as she stalked back to the door. “I can’t do this. I need you to go.”

He fought that with every fibre of his being. “Not yet.”