Page 7 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire
He dunked the last sliver of biscotti into his cup, popped it in his mouth, and stood, taking his mug with him to the sink. “Surely my grandmother filled you in on my vital statistics. Height. Weight. Occupation. Bank balance.”
This time, Zoe couldn’t stop her hand from smacking the counter. Unfortunately, it was the hand with the biscotti, which dissolved into a pile of crumbs on the granite. A waste of quality baked goods, even if it was prepared by the most frustrating man on the planet. “I was as surprised to find you here as you were to find me. And the only communication I had involved your grandmother’s real estate, not her relatives.”
“Spare me the melodramatics.”
“I am not being melodramatic. I’m—” She searched for the right word. “Exasperated.”
He chuckled, a low rumble that started a conga line of tingles through her nervous system. “You look more—what is that charming phrase you Americans use? Pissed off.”
She tossed back what was left of her cappuccino—to hell with sipping—and plunked her cup down on the counter. Time to bounce. Her new roomie might be the hottest thing in boxers since Mark Wahlberg’s Calvin Klein ads—and a damn good cook, too—but his crappy attitude was wearing thin. “Whatever.”
“Ah, another favorite American expression. I’m told it can mean everything from ‘who cares’ to ‘fuck you.’ Which is it this time?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She pushed her stool away from the counter and hopped down, her bare feet slapping the tile floor.
“Where are you going?”
“Does it matter as long as I’m out of your hair?”
“Not really,” he admitted, scraping his fingers through his thick curls. Apparently, it wasn’t only clothes he was boycotting. Brushes were on his no-no list, too. “But you won’t get far without transportation.”
She flapped a hand dismissively. “Your grandmother has given me the run of the place. I saw a cute little mint green scooter in the garage.”
His eyes widened. “Nonna’s letting you ride Bianca?”
“She named her scooter Bianca?” Zoe was going to have to revise her mental image of Carmella. She’d pictured her as the stereotypical Italian grandmother, like Marie Barone inEverybody Loves Raymondor that woman who went viral on YouTube trying to use Google Home. She couldn’t imagine either one of them zipping around Positano on a scooter named Bianca.
“You don’t know Nonna. She loves that thing. I’m not even allowed to touch it, and I’m her favorite grandson.”
“Only if you’re her only grandson.”
“I’ll have you know women of all ages find me charming. Present company excluded, of course.”
She rolled her eyes, and he frowned, drawing his brows together and giving him that broody, sexy look Jason Momoa perfected inGame of Thrones.
“Is it that hard to believe I could be likable?”
Yes. No. Maybe. She wasn’t touching that question.
“I don’t know what your deal with your grandmother is, but she gave me full use of any and all vehicles. It’s spelled out in the rental agreement. Today’s Tuesday, right?” She’d lost track of what day it was with the time change. “I thought I’d check out that farmers’ market you mentioned. Or maybe take a drive, see the countryside, get lost.”
Her father always said getting lost was the best way to find yourself. Although at fifty-five, he was still looking. So it was possible his theory was flawed.
Dante tilted his head, studying her. “In that?”
She folded her arms across her chest, obscuring the Fries inFries Before Guys. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Unlike some people in this kitchen, I’m not an exhibitionist.”
“Pity.”
A hot flush crept up her neck at the implication he’d like to see more skin than she was already showing in her tank top and shorts. She ignored it, opting to give his buttons one last push before heading to her bedroom for a wardrobe change. “And before I get back, can you do me a favor?”
“Another?” he drawled in that damn panty-melting accent. She hoped he was a man of few words. Otherwise this month would be pure torture. “What now?”
“Put some damn clothes on.”
…
Zoe wasn’t a woman to be messed with. And not one to be scared off easily.
