Page 13 of The Road to You

I should say something, but instead, I just stare . After a beat, he turns, catching me red-handed. His brows lift in amusement before his lips curve into a slow, knowing grin.

“Finally,” he says, and damn, even his voice is as smooth as a caress. “I thought you were dead in there.”

“No,” I manage, stepping farther into the room. “Just needed to warm up a bit. The water out there is freezing.”

A partial truth, but not the full story. Fortunately, he doesn’t call me on it. Instead, he reaches for a second glass and hands it to me. The deep red liquid swirls inside.

“I’m making pasta with tomato sauce. Nothing fancy,” he says. “You okay with that?”

The fact that he’s cooking, that he already thought about dinner, makes my stomach stir in ways that have nothing to do with hunger. I love it when a man doesn’t expect me to cook for him. I’m a nightmare deciding what to eat, and most of the time I end up ordering out.

“Hell, yes,” I say, taking a sip of wine.

He chuckles, turning back to the stove. “Figured something simple was the best choice.”

I admire the easy way he completes each task without thinking. He strikes me as someone who can make more than a simple pasta.

“Who taught you how to cook?” I ask, leaning against the counter, watching him.

His expression softens. “My mom. Typical southern Italian mother. She loved having us in the kitchen, but still believed it was a woman’s job. Even so, she never turned me away when I asked questions.”

“But you kept cooking,” I guess, watching the way his hands move with practiced ease.

He shrugs. “Had to survive. I was out of the house by sixteen, chasing my dream. Picked it up from there.”

A flicker of curiosity pulses through me again.

What exactly was his dream? He always sidesteps the answer.

Even now, he keeps it vague, as if he doesn’t want me to know.

By now I’m sure he’s not a criminal, but why doesn’t he tell me what kind of athlete he is?

I can understand how talking about his job reminds him that his injury put a stop to that, but I don’t need the entire story, just a bit to make me feel part of his world.

I feel like I’m an open book, while he is a secret chest.

Before I can pry, he shifts the focus back to me. “What about you? How was life with your parents?”

I take another sip of wine, choosing my words. “I was homeschooled while my sister went to a normal school. My parents flew me to auditions and made sure I had tutors when I was filming on location. They didn’t want to disrupt my sister’s life for my career, so they found ways to balance both.”

Being a child actress wasn’t easy for my parents, but I was a stubborn little thing, and I knew that was my vocation.

His gaze sharpens. “Sounds harder than what I went through.”

I smile. “I loved it. I knew by the age of eight that I wanted to act. My parents never let me lose sight of reality, though. They made sure I graduated on time, with flying colors. They were strict about that.”

He nods approvingly. “We were both lucky. Some parents put everything on the gifted kid, pressure them until they break.”

He’s right, I’ve seen my fair share of stage moms to know how lucky I was to have parents who care about me.

“Oh, not my parents. Every penny I earned went into an investment account. By the time I was twenty, I was already rich, thanks to my dad’s knack for investments.”

Silence stretches between us, comfortable and warm, filled only by the gentle simmering of sauce. I watch as he scoops some onto a piece of sourdough bread, then turns to me.

“Here,” he says, holding it up.

I lean in, my lips brushing against his fingers as I take a bite. The moment my mouth closes around it, I groan softly at the burst of flavor. I will never understand why Italian food tastes this good. It’s a tomato, for Pete’s sake!

“This is amazing,” I murmur.

But Michele isn’t looking at the food. He’s looking at me, at my lips. His eyes darken, and the heat behind them is unmistakable. A single drop of sauce clings to my lower lip, and before I can react, he reaches out, wiping it away with his thumb.

Time seems to slow while my pulse pounds in my ears and his thumb lingers on my lip, tracing the shape of it with agonizing slowness.

The shiver of pleasure and anticipation goes straight down to my core, making me squirm.

And then, fuck , he brings it to his mouth, sucking the sauce from his finger in a way that is entirely too sensual.

Who would have thought cleaning food from your fingers could be so unbelievably sexy? My knees go weak.

His gaze flicks down to my parted lips. I can feel his unsteady breath on my skin. He is just as turned on as I am. My own intake of air is no better. His other hand slides up, his fingers threading into my hair at the base of my neck, gripping just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

His lips crash onto mine, and the world explodes.

Heat sears through me as he kisses me like he’s starving for it, like he needs this as much as I do.

His tongue sweeps against mine, the taste of wine and tomato and something wholly him intoxicating me more than the alcohol ever could.

The pounding of my heart in my ears is deafening, and everything disappears around us.

I press against him, my hands splaying over his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady pound of his heart.

He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me, pooling low in my belly.

Everything I tried to suppress under the shower comes back with a vengeance.

His lips are soft but firm, and they guide my mouth with the perfect amount of possessiveness.

I’m not fond of men who think they have power over women, but Michele leads this kiss, guessing exactly what drives me insane.

His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I gasp against his lips, arching into his touch.

He takes advantage of the moment, deepening the kiss, his tongue stroking mine in a slow, devastating rhythm that makes me ache.

If I thought he was craving me before, I was mistaken.

Now he possesses my mouth like he wants to devour me.

I don’t even notice when he backs me against the counter until I feel the edge dig into my lower back. He presses into me, and God help me, I want more.

I want his mouth, his hands on me, but at the same time, it’s too much. I tear my lips away, breathless, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Wait,” I whisper, my hands still pressed against his chest.

His brows pull together and concern flickers across his face, like he’s worried he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

“I can’t,” I force out. “I’m not ready. I still need to talk to Preston. I need to close that door before I open this one.”

His jaw clenches, but he steps back, giving me space, except for his hands, which remain on my waist, grounding me. I swear I see a glimpse of guilt crossing his gaze before hiding it.

“I understand,” he says, his voice rough, but there is not a hint of doubt in that statement.

“It’s not that I don’t like you. God. I really like you.” He smiles at my confession. “But I feel like it isn’t fair for both of us if I don’t solve my mess before dragging you into this.”

He smiles and nods. “You don’t have to explain. I understand, and I apologize if I took this too far.”

I search his face for disappointment, for frustration. I find neither. Just patience and quiet understanding.

And that scares me more than anything. Because it makes me want him even more. I feel that pull at my chest tighten even more than before, and I’m scared that at some point it will snap, leaving me more broken than when I arrived in this country.

Shit.