Page 159 of Brutal Heir
The Sicilian sun is merciless, burning my shoulders as I toss the deflated soccer ball at Enzo’s head, ignoring his dramatic yelp as it bounces off him and lands in the sand.
“Stop throwing shit at me, Matty,” he whines, shielding his eyes as he sprawls across the towel. “We’re on vacation.”
“It’s not vacation if you’re horizontal all day,” I shoot back, smirking. I glance around the crowded beach, scanning for something, no, someone, more interesting than Enzo’s complaints.
And that’s when I see her.
Standing at the shoreline, the water curling around her ankles. Strawberry blonde hair, like fire spun with honey, catching the sun as she tucks it behind her ear. Skin kissed pink by the sun. Legs that go on for days. A navy bikini under cutoff denim shorts, and a thin silver chain around her neck catching the light.
But it’s her eyes that get me, even from this distance. Blue like the Mediterranean Sea, and just as endless.
She’s laughing at something a dark-haired friend says, but there’s a hesitation there, a cautiousness in the way her arms cross over her stomach like she’s holding herself in place.
Mine.
“Yo, Enzo,” I say, kicking sand on his calf. “You see her?”
He squints. “Who, the ginger? Good luck, bro.”
Ginger? He has no poetry in his soul.
I grab my bottle of San Pelligrino, take a swig, and toss it back onto the towel. Then I’m moving, weaving around sunbathers, stepping over sandcastles, completely zeroed in on the girl with fire in her hair and caution in her eyes.
She notices me when I’m about ten feet away. Her smile falters, replaced with a polite, tight-lipped curiosity as she watches me approach.
“Ciao, bella,” I say, flashing the Rossi smile that usually gets me what I want.
She arches a brow, her accent lilting as she answers, “That’s original.”
Ah, Irish. My grin widens. “You’re not wrong. But when in Rome...”
Her friend steps away with a quick wave, leaving us alone in the breeze and salt air.
I stick my hand out, ignoring the way it’s still dusty with sand. “Matteo.”
She looks at my hand like it might bite, then finally slides her palm into mine, her skin cool against the heat of the day. “Cat.”
“Cat,” I repeat, testing it on my tongue like a fine wine. “Short for something?”
“Caitriona.” Her gaze flickers away, her hand slipping from mine too quickly. “I take it you’re not from here.”
“New York.” I shrug. “But I’m half-Italian. Here for the summer, trying to remember how to slow down.”
“Good luck with that,” she mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile.
I tilt my head, studying her. “And you? Not from here either clearly. Not with that accent.”
“No.” She sighs, glancing back at the waves. “Belfast. I’m working at one of the bars in town for the summer.”
“And you’re standing here looking like that, on this beach, and no one’s snatched you up yet?” I tease, stepping closer, just enough to see the freckles on her nose.
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t back away. “Maybe I’m not looking to be snatched up.”
A laugh tumbles out of me.Dio, I like her already. There’s nothing I like better than the chase. “I’m not trying to snatch you, Cat. Just... walk with you.”
“Walk with me?” Her brows lift skeptically.
“Yeah,” I say, softer now. “Down there.” I point to where the beach curls around a rocky bend, away from the noise, the umbrellas, and the rowdycalciogames.
