Our Secret Summer(69)

I tip my head back and smile, warning him, “I smell like liquor.”

He doesn’t care. He runs his nose along my pulse point, his voice quiet when he replies, “No, you smell like Isabel.”

I bask in the warmth of his body. “Did you bring me here just for a tour, or—”

“I thought you could sleep here tonight,” he says confidently.

I drape my hand over his so our fingers overlap, though my hand over his is wholly inadequate. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I thought you wanted to accomplish everything else on the bucket list before that.”

“That?” he presses, taunting me as his head dips and his lips move to the strap of my tank top. His chin nudges it aside so it slips down my shoulder.

“Us sleeping together,” I reply with a coy smile, enjoying his attention far too much.

He holds up his hand like he’s being sworn in to testify. “I can be a gentleman.”

Even while saying it, his other hand pulls me back against him.

I don’t know why I’m arguing against this. I don’t care about finishing the rest of the bucket list first. By all means, let’s skip to the good part.

Then Cristiano steps back with a little sigh. He twists me around, his fingers dip to my waist, and for a second he looks at me with the hungriest gaze I’ve ever seen. Pure want. Animalistic and wild.

My stomach tightens. I think he’s going to kiss me. In seconds I’ll be pressed into the glass doors behind me, his dominating body eclipsing mine. But he blinks and keeps his eyes closed for a second. When he looks at me again, the hunger is buried.

“Come on. I’ll let you rinse off and get you a change of clothes.”

I let him pull me down the hallway, annoyed that our tour doesn’t include stops in every room along the way. I glimpse the formal dining room, a small reading room with wooden bookshelves recessed in the walls, and a guest bedroom, but most of the doors in the hallway are closed. I want to see every nook and cranny, the pantry, the hall bathroom, the attic. This place has so much history. I’m glad Cristiano never tore it down.

On the other end of the house, tucked in a hallway by itself, a double set of doors leads to the primary suite. After he flips on the light, Cristiano waves for me to walk in first, but I stop at the threshold. The ceiling is decorated with overlapping wooden beams. The white plaster walls smooth down to arched windows. I can imagine the breeze blowing the pale linen drapes toward the canopied bed, Cristiano reading in that chair near the windows or undressing beside the antique bench at the foot of his bed.

I want to kiss his interior design team for what they’ve managed to do with this room. It belongs in Architectural Digest. I mean, for all I know it’s already been featured in the magazine. I chuckle under my breath, and Cristiano looks at me with a curious smile.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, trying not to project every single thought flitting through my head.

I grew up in pretty homes surrounded by pretty things, but nothing like this. Cristiano’s villa is special. I glance over at the bed, trying not to linger.

“Do those windows lead to the same terrace as the great room?”

“No, this bedroom has a private balcony. I like to drink my coffee out there in the mornings.”

I chuckle bitterly. “Back home, I gulp my coffee while I’m hurrying to get dressed, and then if I’m lucky I get another cup when I’m at my desk. No harbor views for me.”

“Does your father know you’re unhappy at De Vere?”

I go rigid and shake my head, immediately feeling guilty for sounding so ungrateful. “No. It’s not like that. I didn’t mean to complain.”

I don’t like the way Cristiano studies me, how easily he can see the truth even when I try to shut it away. I keep my attention anywhere but him.

“Do you not feel like you can be honest with him?” he continues. “You mentioned you two are close…”

I hate that he’s pushing the subject. Normally I try hard to keep the deep dives into my feelings to a minimum. Rote routines have helped, relying on the sameness of each day to carry me through week to week, month to month. It was a coping mechanism I developed after losing Winnie, and I guess it stuck.

Though on Ibiza I’ve started to daydream of a different life, I haven’t let myself get that carried away. I’ve given myself this summer, but nothing more. A few months of freedom to get my selfishness out of my system and then I’ll go back home and reposition myself where I belong, at my father’s side, continuing our family’s legacy.

I give a tight shake of my head and turn toward the doors that lead to the bathroom. “It’s fine. Would it be okay if I took a shower now?”

He studies me solemnly before he turns toward the bathroom. If he’s annoyed that I didn’t indulge his questioning, he doesn’t show it.

I follow after him as he strolls past the large free-standing tub and pulls open the glass shower door so he can turn on the water for me and adjust the temperature. I catch sight of us in the mirror above the long vanity, me in my tank top and shorts, my long hair a little tangled and wild after my shift. Cristiano is still in his impeccable suit without the jacket. A laugh bubbles up, but I force it down. It’s so absurd that I’m standing here right now. This entire thing has to have been orchestrated by Winnie. She’s somewhere gloating as she watches me start to undress in Cristiano’s bathroom.