Page 182 of My Italian Love Affair

The message sends, and I immediately regret it.

What if he doesn't reply?

What if hedoes?

What if I’ve just made a complete fool of myself?

Finally.

I was starting to think I'd imagined you.

I let out a disbelieving laugh and shake my head.

He’s good.

Toogood.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard as my brain cycles through about twenty different responses. I settle on the most sarcastic one.

You? Imagining me? I thought you'd need more brain cells for that.

I hit send and immediately cringe.

Too much? Too defensive?

The dots reappear almost immediately.

Ouch. You wound me, Sinclair. I'm not sure how I’ll recover.

A snort escapes me, and I lean back into the sofa, tapping the edge of my phone against my chin as I imagine him fake-pouting like the cocky idiot he is.

Probably with a hot bath and a lot of ego-soothing.

The response comes fast.

What can I say? You left an impression.

The innuendo is so thick I practically choke on it.

My skin heats as my mind flashes back to his hands gripping my hips, and my breath catches slightly as my fingers hover over the screen.

My palm on your cheek, maybe.

As soon as the message sends, I clap my hand over my mouth.

Jesus Christ - what am Idoing?!

I wouldn't mind as long as you're the one delivering it.

My stomach flips, and heat pools low in my belly.

I should shut this down. Right now.

But my fingers seem to have a mind of their own.

Careful, Rossi.

I might have to take you up on that.

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