Page 21 of My Dark Fairy Tale
I blinked at him as I chewed a piece of bright citrus. It was both eerie and wonderful that his thoughts so closely aligned with my own. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me, given that he was almost a perfect stranger, yet I felt more comfortable sitting there that morning with him on a terrace in Florence than I’d felt in most other places with most other people in my life so far.
“Are all Italian men so wise?” I teased finally.
Raffa’s slow, curling grin was wicked. “You have not seen anything yet.”
“Okay, Yoda,” I quipped, then hesitated. “Sorry, do you knowStar Wars?”
“I am Italian, not an alien,” he drawled. “Of course I understand the reference, young Padawan.”
My grin was so wide it hurt my cheeks, dimples digging trenches into my face.
Raffa got up with a murmur about making me an espresso, and I tipped my face into the sun, closing my eyes to smell the jasmine blooming in the flower boxes along the terrace’s stone railing. I let myself wonder what it might be like to live this kind of life every day, waking up in a palace and having breakfast on the terrace in Florence’s most exclusive neighborhood. Instead of going to work at my father’s financial firm every day, I would bike through the streets to the Uffizi Gallery, where I could give tours to English tourists on the bevy of art and artifacts on display. I could come home every night to Raffa, tie discarded, buttons undone to his sternum to reveal the crisp black chest hair I’d pressed my nose into while I was too delirious with sickness to truly enjoy it. We’d cook dinner and listen to jazz and dance under the moonlight.
I snorted at my own silliness, shaking my head to clear it of those childish fantasies.
There was an Italian saying my father had told me,vivere nel mondo della luna, which kind of meant living with your head in the clouds.
My entire life, I’d been dreaming of traveling to other places and being a different kind of person. I wasn’t going to waste my opportunity now that it was here by fantasizing about something that would never happen.
Of course, that was easier said than done when Raffa drove us to Via de’ Tornabuoni, which I knew from researching Florence inside and out was the most exclusive shopping street in the city. I gawked out the window as we pulled up outside a large boutique and watched a uniformed valet move toward the car.
“When you saidshopping, I was kind of expecting a Forever 21 or something,” I murmured as a gorgeous older woman strutted by in a pencil skirt and high heels that should have made it impossible for her to walk at all.
Raffa huffed something like a laugh but otherwise didn’t respond, getting out of the car to hand his keys to the eager driver. Before I could pull myself together to leave the car, he was at my door, opening it and then offering me his hand.
I blinked up at him dumbly because no one had ever opened the door for me, let alone helped me out of my car. My father didn’t even do it for my mother because she said it was antiquated and she knew damn well how to open the door of a car herself.
And sure, even recovering as I was, I could have levered myself out of the low Ferrari with minimal effort and much less grace.
This was just a much lovelier alternative.
I slipped my hand over his calloused palm and allowed his strength to pull me gently out of the car ... and into his body. The hard lengthof his chest pressed against my small breasts, and the heat of him seared me through to the bone.
My mouth dropped open in an inaudible gasp as I tipped my head back to look up at him. He was staring down at me almost somberly, those copper eyes tracing my features. I was close enough to notice how square his chin was, the nick of an old scar white against the tanned skin at the corner of his jaw.
“Do not be embarrassed when we go in,” he ordered. “You are not the kind of woman who should wear cheap American cloth, and I am not the kind of man to buy it for you. We will go inside together, and you will let me buy for you what I want simply because I want to and it will bring me joy. You understand?”
I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, you’re really bossy, but it’s hard to take umbrage at it when you’re also being insanely generous.”
He gave me that one-shouldered shrug, like my concerns were beneath him and he knew he would get what he wanted in the end.
Why was that brand of arrogance so sexy?
Without another word, he shifted a hand to my lower back and pressed me forward to walk slightly in front of him toward the store.
“Signore,” a woman greeted him instantly when we walked in. She smiled beatifically as she moved toward us, hands open in greeting. “It has been too long.”
“Maria Lucia.” They exchanged brief kisses on both cheeks before Raffa presented me with a little push to the base of my spine. “This is my friend, Guinevere ...”
“Stone,” I supplied, offering my hand to Maria Lucia. “Nice to meet you.”
She blinked at my outstretched hand and then dissolved into a warm smile, grasping me lightly by the shoulders to kiss the air beside both my cheeks.
When she spoke, her English was flawless. “Hello, Guinevere Stone. I see you need some clothing?”
Her gaze trailed over Raffa’s shirt, which was belted at my waist with a Gucci scarf and paired with my hastily repaired sandals.
A blush warmed my cheeks like a sunburn, but before I could open my mouth to explain, Raffa was taking my hand to lead me to the nearest display.
