Page 7 of The Temptation

“I hope you cook as well as your sister.”

My eyes narrow as my head snaps around so fast I almost give myself whiplash. The look I give him could cut glass as I open my mouth, ready to give him some lip, but the second my eyes drag from his damp hair, over his gorgeous face, then land on his unbuttoned black dress shirt, giving me a teasing view of his sculptured abs and tattooed, chiselled chest, my words catch in my throat.

Goddamn it.

It’s impossible to concentrate when he looks like sin dressed in expensive fabric and soaked in temptation. He belongs on a runway in Milan, not in this kitchen. Every muscle is carved like it was made to be worshipped, and every inked line whispers secrets I’ll never know the answers to. And the worst part? He knows exactly the effect he has on me.

My mouth opens again, but only a breath comes out. I force my eyes back to the sauce, willing myself to focus, to remember who the hell I am, but even the smell of garlic and basil can’t drown out the heat pulsing in my veins.

He leans casually against the counter like he has all the time in the world. As if he’s not a walking, talking distraction from every ounce of common sense I’ve ever had.

“Cat got your tongue, Luc?” he asks, nudging my arm as a smug smirk tugs at his lips.

That move only heightens my annoyance, so I continue to ignore him. He’s been treating me like a leper and an inconvenience all day, and now he wants to be jovial?

It’s a little late for that.

He waits a beat, but when he gets no reply from me, he pushes off the counter with a shrug. “Wanna beer?”

I glance at him over my shoulder as I ask, “Oh, I’m allowed to have one now, am I?”

“You were always allowed to have one, Lucia,” he answers, mirth dancing in those silvery-grey eyes of his. “I just would have appreciated it if you had asked first. People have been taking liberties with me my whole life; I didn’t expect you to be one of them.”

“Who?” I ask as a flicker of irritation sparks at the thought of anyone taking advantage of him.

“My mother, for one.”

That catches me off guard. Perhaps I’ll get the chance to peel back a few of his layers while we’re stuck in lockdown together.

One can only hope.

Chapter 3

Romeo

“Fucking hell, Luc,” I mumble through a mouthful of food as I scoop an extra helping onto my plate before reaching for another slice of pizza to lap up the sauce. “This is so good.”

I wasn’t thrilled about missing out on my best friend’s wife’s cooking while being stuck here with her sister, but as it turns out, Lucia clearly inherited the same culinary magic.

Before Dante married Arabella, I wasn’t used to eating this well, not even close. My cooking skills barely cover the basics, which were self-taught out of necessity. My mother couldn’t put a meal together to save her life, unless it came out of a can.

Growing up, there were days when I was lucky to eat at all. The only time I remember getting three proper meals a day was during the handful of weeks I spent with my uncle and aunt. Even then, it was never anything like this.

“Thank you,” she replies as a sweet blush climbs her neck. “Save room for dessert.”

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth as I cock an eyebrow. “You made dessert too?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“What are we having?”

“Zabaglione with strawberries.”

“Yum. I haven’t had that since I was a kid.”

A small, wistful smile tugs on her pretty lips. “My mamma made that for us often when she was alive.”

“Huh, you’re lucky,” I scoff. “The only thing my mum ever fed me was out of a can … that’s if she even bothered to feed me at all.”