Page 91 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

There’s a wood fireplace as well, but I’ll have to mess with that later. I want Roisin in here and out of the cold before it gets too bad.

I retrieve her from the car, tucking her into my arms. She shivers, and I pull her closer. When we get into the cabin, I set her gently on the leather couch and wrap one of the blankets around her.

“I hope there’s a shower. I smell like hot spring,” Roisin murmurs.

“There’s a shower, but I can’t guarantee the water is hot.”

She shrugs. “I’ll see about that.”

Roisin stands, and I wince as her perfect feet touch the cold wood floor. I want to sweep her up in my arms again so she doesn’t have to walk across the cabin, but she’s gone before I get the chance. I hear the shower start to run, and I return to the Range Rover for the rest of our supplies.

By the time I’m done, Roisin steps out from the shower, a luxurious looking towel wrapped around her body. Whoever put this place together did it with a kind of quiet luxury in mind, and it makes me feel a little settled.

If it had been a dump, I would have taken Roisin back to the lake house, weather be damned.

“I’d like some clothes, De Luca,” she says.

I don’t miss the breathiness in her voice, however.

My eyes follow the path of a water drop as it rolls down her neck, stopping right at the space of the hollow of her throat. She’s so fucking pretty. The water drop stops right next to the little freckle that I’ve licked before.

I want to lick it again.

The taste of her skin…

“Marco. Clothes,” she holds out one of her hands.

Robotically, I grab her bag and put it into her hands.

Roisin spins on her heel, heading back into the bathroom.

Leaving me, staring.

Wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

Eventually, Roisin comes out, fully dressed in so much clothing that I’m surprised she’s not roasting hot.

Well. She is hot.

But I don’t think she’s going to admit that, and I don’t mean it in terms of her temperature.

“Your turn,” she waves at the shower.

I don’t need to be reminded. However, instead of lingering like Roisin, I quickly move through and wash up, then exit to find her in the kitchen.

Something smells good.

“I hope you know I can’t cook for shit,” she mutters.

I smile. “I remember that.”

Her green eyes flick to mine, then she looks down. “It’s nothing special. You’re stocked with sausages and the stuff for colcannon, so that’s what I’m making.”

“The cabin came with food,” I say.

She stops chopping, looking down at the food with suspicion. “Just randomly? So how do you know it’s not poisoned?—”

I lean in, quickly sampling each one of the ingredients. Rawpotatoes taste like shit, and the sausage is mostly cooked, but hot.

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