I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on my skin.
Twenty minutes, 400 milligrams of Motrin, and one glass of wine later, I was able to put some weight on my foot.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said, limping over to my bag and taking out my clean underwear, socks, cosmetics case, and the sweatshirt Gianni had purchased for me.
“Okay,” Gianni said from the stove.
“I can help you with dinner when I get out.”
“I don’t want you on that foot. I’ve got this.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, a grin playing on his lips. “But let me know if you need help in the shower.”
Rolling my eyes, I hobbled toward the bathroom. “I’m fine, thanks.”
But I wasn’t.
As I shut the bathroom door, I leaned back against it and put a hand on my fluttering stomach. While I got undressed, all I could think about was the night ahead. Hour after hour alone in the dark with him, sharing that little bed with the memory of his body on mine fresh in my mind. The memory of his kiss. Of his tongue. Of those orgasms.
God, why couldn’t he have been shitty at sex? Clumsy and selfish, with no clue what to do with his hands or his mouth, let alone his dick? Why did he have to know just how to touch me? The right things to say? Exactly how to move? No one had ever made me feel that good—desirable, wanted, sexy.
And he was being so sweet today. I thought I’d seen all his sides, but maybe there was more to him than a big ego and a hot body.
I just wouldn’t think about it, that was all. I’d take a nice, long shower and think about other things—special events I could do at Abelard this summer, engaging social media posts, updates to our tasting room, maybe a series of tasting videos online or a podcast where I interviewed other small winemakers in the region about what they were doing.
Distracted by business, I began to feel better. The water at the Pineview Motel didn’t get very hot, of course, and I had to keep most of my weight on one leg, but I managed. In my cosmetics case, I’d discovered tiny travel bottles of my shampoo and conditioner, so I even managed to wash my hair.
After I got out, I dried off, wrapped the towel around me, and combed through my wet hair. Since there was no blow dryer, I’d have to let it air dry. I hung up the towel on a hook, and pulled on my clean underwear, socks, and the XL sweatshirt. It was huge, even bigger than Gianni’s sweater from last night, so I didn’t feel too self-conscious coming out of the bathroom in it.
When I opened the door, I was greeted with an aroma that made my mouth water—tomatoes and garlic and herbs and fresh bread. But how was that even possible?
“What are you making?” I asked, limping up behind Gianni. A pot of pasta was boiling on one burner, and he was stirring sauce on the other. On the counter was olive oil, a few dried herbs and spices, the bottle of white wine, and something wrapped in foil. “Why does it smell so good?”
“Rose gave me a loaf of bread she baked today and I sliced it open, brushed it with melted butter and garlic powder, and warmed it up on the stove. It’s wrapped up there.” He nodded toward the counter. “And this is going to be our spaghetti pomodoro.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
“Good.” He tasted the sauce and added a little more salt. “Rose also offered me a frozen bag of spinach—she said her husband won’t touch the stuff—and as soon as the sauce is done, I’ll use the pan to sauté it with some white wine.”
“Speaking of wine.” I poured us each another glass, hoping the buzz would deaden the feelings building for him inside me. “What else can I do?”
“Nothing. I told you, I’ve got this.” He glanced at me and smiled. “You look cute. How’s the ankle?”
“Thanks. It’s okay.” Hating the way my heart beat a little faster at the compliment, I took my wine over to the bed and sat down. “I think I might try to get ahold of Winnie.”
“I just talked to my dad.” Gianni drained the spaghetti in the sink.
“You did? Is he at Abelard?” Leaning back against the headboard, I extended my legs in front of me.
“Yes. All good. Apparently, he’s got Winnie’s sister in the kitchen, and he likes her so much he’s about ready to offer her a job at Trattoria Lupo. Says she’s quick on her feet and a fast learner.”
I smiled. “That’s Felicity. She’s crazy smart. She just moved back from Chicago to start her own catering company.”