Page 21 of The Proposal

My eyes flicker up to the clock. “I started a few hours ago.”

“Why?”

“I wanted the food ready for when your men arrive.”

“You got up early to do this for me and my men?”

“I’m not going to eat it all myself.”

“Where did you get the ingredients? Dario said he bought a few essentials like milk and eggs.”

“He did. I got most of what I needed from the pantry.”

“Fuck … you made cornetti,” he says, glancing over my shoulder. “I love them.”

“I made them with two different fillings. These are chocolate … those are fruit,” I reply, pointing to the different batches.

“You found fruit in the pantry?”

“No, I found some frozen berries in the freezer.”

“Chocolate is my favourite.”

“Mine too.”

“Seriously,Bellezza. I’m impressed. My mouth is salivating right now. I could smell these from our room.”

Our room.

His words spread warmth throughout my body. I’m not used to being praised.

I reach over, take a chocolate cornetti from the tray, and turn to face him, only to realise my mistake the moment I do. We’re now mere inches apart.

Given our height difference, my eyes are level with his sternum, and I catch my first close-up look at the tattoo on his chest. It’s an intricate pair of praying hands holding rosary beads. It’s so well done that it almost seems lifelike. Beneath it, the word“Mamma”is etched in delicate script.

The sight causes a lump to form in my throat. It’s such a beautiful tribute. I should get something like that for my mother, God rest her beautiful soul. My father would kill me if I permanently marked my skin with her memory, but maybe my husband wouldn’t mind.

I crane my neck slightly, and my eyes flicker to his face. “Would you mind if I got a tattoo?” I ask as I pass him the chocolate cornetti in my hand.

He cocks an eyebrow. “You want to get inked?”

I nod as I point to his chest. “I want something like that.”

“There is no way I’m letting another man touch your tit, Arabella.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Do you have to be so crude?”

The corners of his lips tug into a grin. “Sorry, I forgot I was married to a prude.”

I gasp, reaching for the pastry in his hand to snatch it back, but he anticipates my move, holding his arm up high in the air so I can’t reach it.

When I jump, he laughs, so I poke his abs with my forefinger. Unfortunately, they’re so rock-hard that my move only manages to bend my finger back.

“Ouch,” I say, shaking my hand. I think it hurt me more than it did him.

The smile drops from his face, and he looks down at me and frowns. “Are you alright?”

“I hurt my finger.”

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