Page 18 of Marry Me Not
It was a joke, but it triggered my defenses. I didn’t want her to think I was warming up to her. “You’ve obviously never been groped if you think that’s what that was,” I said roughly.
The shutter clicked. “Fabiana, tilt your head back, please,” the photographer said. “I want you looking right into each other’s eyes.”
She lifted her chin, and her emerald gaze shimmered with mild annoyance. “Of course not. I’m a good Italian girl. I’ve been saving myself for marriage.”
“Hold still!” the photographer called out.
He didn’t need to tell me to hold still.
My body had gone rigid, stunned by the sharp, unwanted jolt of arousal that pulsed low into my groin.
Mine.
The thought flashed hot and primitive through my head before sanity slammed back into place.
“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”
She scoffed again. “You were asking about my family’s traditions. That’s one of them.”
Christ.All those years away from home, and she hadn’t broken fromthatparticular tradition?
Didn’t matter. Or at least, it shouldn’t. And yet my heart raced, my body burned, and an image of her splayed across my bed wearing white lingerie and looking at me with those innocent eyes refused to leave my mind.
“Fabiana, rest your cheek against his chest.”
A second later, she was right there. Her ear pressed against my racing heart. When her breath hitched, I knew she’d heard it.
Fuck.
I forced myself to take a slow, deliberate breath, fighting to get my body back under control.
“That’s perfect! We got it!”
We broke apart. The photographer was babbling about editing and sending out the files, but I tuned him out while I attempted to rein myself in.
A wife handpicked for me by my mother was bad. But a wife with a body that fit too well against mine and who managed to get under my skin with just a few words? That was even worse.
Without a word, I turned and made my way toward the bar in search of a stiff drink.
It was only after my phone buzzed and I read Rosa’s message that my agitation eased.
“I found something on her. Not so innocent after all. Call me when you can.”
CHAPTER 7
FABIANA
It wasnine o’clock on a Thursday, and Potions & Co was packed. Located in a SoHo basement, it was a cozy speakeasy designed to mimic an old-school apothecary. My friends and I sat in a round booth tucked away just beside the bar. Against the backdrop of eighties hits and din of conversation, our bartender mixed our drinks.
Chuga-chuga. Chuga-chuga. Chuga-chuga. Clank.
The wiry man, Frank, cracked open the silver cocktail shaker with a satisfying pop. He poured the frothy alcoholic concoction into four delicate coupe glasses before bringing them around to us. “Here you go, ladies. The Devil’s Cauldron. Let me know if you like it.”
Mia took a sip first. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“Is that a hint of peach?” Nina asked, lifting the glass closer to her nose.
“House-made peach cordial,” Frank confirmed with a grin. “You’ve got a good palate.”
