Page 62 of Can't Always Get What You Want

I know I should slam the brakes.

I know I should remind myself this was supposed to be light and forgettable because if Gio catches us dating, he will make Luca’s life a living hell.

This evening is something I’ll laugh about with Poppy later, but I can’t help but wonder…

He glances over his shoulder and catches me looking, his smile going crooked, like he knows I’m enthralled with him.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he teases.

“Simply making sure you’re not screwing up my chicken.” I scoff. “I’m hungry.”

He pauses, gaze going straight to mine. “Same.”

His voice is low. Much rougher than before.

Not just hungry.

Hungry forme.

The kitchen is suddenly too warm, too quiet—as if the air was holding its breath right along with me.

I reach for the salt, pretending I didn’t hear the innuendo. “Well, let’s get the food in the oven, then. Before one of us does something stupid.”

He doesn’t move. Watches me for a beat. “Definestupid.”

I swallow. “Anything that results in Gio showing up at my door with duct tape and a shovel.”

Even as the words leave my mouth, I inwardly cringe. Why am I letting my dumb brother control my actions?! THIS IS MY LIFE!

Mine!

Once the chicken is ready, we walk to the oven and slide it onto the rack. I shut the door with more force than necessary and set the timer. The scent of lemon and rosemary already lingers in the air, rich and delicious.

Luca finally moves, standing closely, his shoulder brushing mine.

“So…” he says, casually. “Now what do we do with ourselves?”

My eyes slide to his mouth, betraying me.

His chest.

Narrow waist.

Giant hands. Tanned, with veins on the backs of them that are better than porn.

I slide my eyes back to his face; his eyes are smiling and his mouth is grinning.

I roll my eyes and start the clean-up. “Now we clean up.”

He laughs at my transparency and begins picking up—grabbing a sponge from the sink and wiping down the stone counter. Rinses the cutting board. Wipes out the sink, gathers the utensils used in prepping the dinner, humming the entire time.

I am a child.

An immature, emotionally underdeveloped idiot who invited him here thinking she could handle this.

I cannot.

We work in a rhythm—he rinses, I wipe, we bump hips a few times, and each one is followed by an exchange of those little looks that last half a beat too long.

---