Page 73 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

Or her heart.

Mr.—Jim swiveled his chair to face her and gave her a reassuring smile that buoyed her shaky self-confidence. Working with him was a far cry from working for Smarmy Marty. “You’ve gotten us this far. Down to the final two. Now you just have to bring it home.”

“I still don’t understand why I’m giving this presentation and not you.”

“Because this is your passion project, not mine. You’re the best one to convey the beauty, spirit, and style of your work.”

Jim’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and swore. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. If I’m not back when the client gets here, have the receptionist page me.”

“Will do.”

Jim breezed out of the conference room, leaving the door ajar and Zoe to her own thoughts. To stop them from drifting, predictably, to Dante, she studied her notes for a few minutes, then paced the room, practicing her presentation under her breath.

“As you can see on this slide, we’ve knocked down a non-load-bearing wall and used soft, light tones like off-white, gray, and seafoam instead of the traditional deep reds and browns to make the dining room look bigger and more inviting.”

Oink.

Zoe’s head spun toward the half-open door, but there was nothing there.

Great. Now she was hearing things. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and let it out on a weary sigh. Glancing at her notes, she tried to refocus on the most important presentation of her career.

“For furniture, we’ve gone with clean, simple lines and pale woods like white oak and birch, again to lighten the space and set you apart from other Italian eateries in the downtown area.”

Oink.

Okay, either she was completely losing it or there was a pig somewhere in the vicinity. Was one of her coworkers playing a cruel trick on her? No, that couldn’t be it. She hadn’t told anyone about Dante. Or Houdini. And it wasn’t as if she splashed the intimate details of her personal life all over social media.

She turned back to the door, more slowly this time, almost afraid of what she might see there.

Oink.

A suspiciously familiar-looking black-and-white pig sat on his haunches inside the doorway. He was a bit bigger than the last time she’d seen him, and the baby blue harness around his pudgy body was new, but she’d recognize those intelligent, gray-green eyes anywhere.

Zoe’s heart did a little stutter step as she knelt down to get on eye level with the animal.

“Houdini?”

He trotted over to her and nuzzled her outstretched hand with his smooth, soft snout.

“It is you.” She hooked a finger under his chin, and he lifted his head, inviting her to rub his neck. “What are you doing here? It’s a long way from Rome. Or Positano. Or wherever you’ve been.”

Houdini’s only response was an indistinct grunt as he flopped down and rolled over on his side. Not that she expected him to actually answer her. She hadn’t gone that far off the deep end. Yet.

Her mind whirred as she considered the possibilities. There were only two people who could have brought Houdini to San Francisco. Dante and his grandmother. She couldn’t imagine Dante had any desire to see her. Maybe the older woman had decided to pay a visit.

Zoe scooped up the pig and stood, determined to solve the mystery of how he got there. She crossed her fingers that her guess was correct. As much as her traitorous body longed for Dante, her heart wasn’t ready for him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Carina.”

The low, masculine voice made the hairs on Zoe’s arms and at the back of her neck stand on end. She clutched Houdini closer to her chest, mentally steeling herself before turning toward the door. Ready or not, she was going to have to face Dante. Because he was there. In San Francisco. At her office.

She turned slowly, deliberately keeping her gaze on the pig in her arms. “I suppose I should thank you for delivering Houdini to me instead of letting him get turned intopancetta.”

“I didn’t come here for Houdini. I came here for you.”

She lifted her head for the inevitable confrontation. Her eyes drank him in, his large, lanky frame, clad in pale gray trousers and a crisp, white button-down shirt, filling the doorway. His collar was open, showing the strong, tanned column of his throat, and his cuffs were rolled up to reveal his muscled forearms, as tan as his neck and lightly dusted with dark hair.

He looked good. As always. His clothes perfectly pressed, his thick curls impeccably coiffed, a suitable amount of sexy stubble on his strong jaw. But there was something different about him. A kind of haunted, hunted look around his eyes and mouth that spoke of sadness and sleepless nights.