Our Secret Summer(67)

I consider her words carefully. “I do, Lita. I do.”





Chapter Eighteen


Isabel


I sink down onto the bench in front of my locker and sigh when I yank off my high heels. I’m used to wearing shoes like this at the De Vere office, but the highest I go is three inches, and only because I spend most of my day there hunched over my desk, staring at my computer.

We have to wear heels for our work uniform, but there’s no height requirement. The ones I have with me are courtesy of Winnie and she apparently decided that on Ibiza, she was going to proudly wear sky-high stilettos or nothing at all. I’ve lined them up in my closet back at the apartment. All of them are at least five inches. If she weren’t already dead, I’d kill her.

I close my eyes and rub them, imagining how hard Winnie would laugh at that joke. God, she loved dark humor. I don’t let the thought linger, though. I don’t want to think of her now when I’m already tired and my defenses are weak.

I stand and change back into my day clothes. Annika and Simone are still on the floor. They won’t be done for another hour or two. I got cut early, and though I offered to stay back and help them, Simone insisted I enjoy my freedom. I think her exact words were “If you don’t scram, I’m going to kick your arse.”

Once I’ve got my bag, I head for the side exit. Mia’s already up ahead, and she lingers to hold the door open for me.

I pick up my pace. “Thanks,” I tell her on the way out.

Antonio is usually posted up out here with a cigarette and his phone. He kills time scrolling through dating apps while he waits for me, and though it seems kind of boring, he’s assured me he doesn’t mind the side gig. He let it slip once that Cristiano is paying him double “and then some.” Whatever that means, it ensures he’s always eager to fall in step with me and escort me home.

His usual spot is empty tonight, though. No Antonio.

I frown and step forward only to crash right into Mia’s back. She’s stopped dead in her tracks, and when I glance over her shoulder to see why, I’m confronted with the intimidating sight of Cristiano standing on the edge of the sidewalk, poured into a bespoke black suit, fancy from his dinner.

Oh. My. God.

Though I’m not Catholic, I almost do the sign of the cross.

The dark jacket glides over his broad shoulders and strong arms. His black tie is perfectly knotted and centered on his crisp white shirt. A white handkerchief winks at me from his breast pocket.

I finally work up the nerve to lift my gaze to his face, and I actually feel weak. His jaw is clean-shaven. His smooth, jet-black hair is parted on the side, neatly held in place.

Mia looks between him and me, laughs, and pats my shoulder as she strolls away. “Good luck with that.”

Cristiano’s smile—the one he tries to hide by stroking his thumb along his bottom lip—tells me he’s already seen and likes my reaction to him.

I look down, horrified. I’m wearing jean cut-offs and a white tank top, not even my nice pair of sandals, but the comfortable ones. I smell like Fireball whiskey thanks to a tipsy customer who accidentally spilled his shot down my arm toward the end of my shift. I tried to wash it off in the bathroom, but I still feel sticky.

Oh, this is so not fair. In that suit he’s locked and loaded, meanwhile I’m completely weaponless.

Cristiano’s lazy perusal of me as I walk toward him makes my skin come alive. The way he drags his gaze up my legs, stomach, chest, neck, mouth, eyes. His heated stare covers every single inch.

When I get close enough to touch him, I cross my arms and pitch my weight to one side. “Had I known we were going formal, I would have brought a ball gown.”

He smiles and grips my waist so he can tip me toward him, lean low, and kiss my cheek. “I came straight from a dinner with investors.” Then he finally pulls back and stares down at me. “I like this outfit.”

“Hmm.” I run my hand down his tie. “I prefer yours. You should dress like this every day.”

“I did once upon a time. When I was a young university student and interned at my father’s firm, I had to dress formal. Was a pain in my ass.”

“God, I bet the ladies in that office loved you.”

He chuckles. “I had a girlfriend.”

The word makes my stomach ache. Girlfriend. I can only imagine a twenty-something Cristiano in a suit shredding hearts and devastating girls everywhere.

“How long were you with her?” I ask, my focus on his tie.

“I can’t remember exactly. Nine, ten months. Something like that.” He lowers his head to kiss my shoulder. “What was little Isabel doing then? Hmm?”

“I was in high school. Not dating.”

“No? The boys didn’t notice you?”

I shudder as his hands readjust on my waist, his thumbs sneaking up underneath my tank top. My heart flutters. “No, the boys didn’t notice me. I was studious and boring compared to Winnie. I was already working after school at the De Vere flagship store because my father wanted me to learn the ropes from the ground up. It might surprise you to learn there weren’t a lot of cute teenage boys working at my father’s jewelry store with me.”

“Good.” His head turns so he can press his lips to the hollow of my neck. “I’m glad you’ve been kept up on that shelf, waiting for me.”