Page 35 of Love Lessons
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Ian’s voice says roughly.
I look up and there he is, leaning that muscular body against one of the high-backed armchairs, wearing the shirt I’d tailored for him, the sleeves rolled up onto brawny forearms. He gives me a saucy wink that makes my heart beat faster.
Could I even handle a night with Ian? If he takes off those trousers, I might just faint. That’s one way out of this awkwardness, I suppose.
Charli trots into the room, leading her husband by the hand. “Oooh! Have I mentioned how much I like Italy?” she asks with obvious glee, as she pulls out a chair and sits down in it. “Let’s eat.”
I take the free chair beside hers, leaving Ian safely on the opposite side of the room.
But guess who walks all the way around the table and seats himself on my right? Yup. Ian Crikey. And just as the rest of our friends hurry in and snag all the other chairs.
And now I’m praying he doesn’t say anything about our awkward conversation.So, Vera here asked me for the craziest favor… He wouldn’t do that, right?
My stomach churns as Charli passes me a bowl of radicchio salad with hearts of palm and grapefruit sections. And after that, a platter of fresh mozzarella, thinly sliced tomatoes and basil, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil.
Well, I guess if I’m going to die of embarrassment, this will make a great last meal. When one of the caterers Drake hired offers me some rosé, I hand him my glass without hesitation.
“We’re going for a run tomorrow, right?” Ian asks the table. “I’m going to need it after all this food.” He helps himself to a spoonful of gnocchi in a buttery sauce. “This smells delicious. Would you like some, contessa?”
“Yes, please.”
When he leans in to serve some onto my plate, I get a whiff of his spicy cologne. “There you go. Eat up. You never know what games we’ll get up to later.” He winks.
I practically burst into flames. I pick up my water glass and down it in a few gulps.
“I love games!” says Fiona from the other side of the table. “I brought Pictionary and Taboo. And I think I saw some more games in the den.”
“There’s a whole collection,” Drake says. “And there’s a big screen for movies hiding behind the paneling in the den. We’re kinda jet lagged. Maybe a movie is the way to go?”
The conversation turns to which movies we should watch together while we’re here. “We can vote,” Sylvie says. “I’ll make a ballot.”
“Wait. They can’t all be chick flicks,” Anton argues.
“Says you.”
As I follow the conversation, Ian shifts in his chair, moving his body a little closer to mine. I’m terribly conscious of his nearness and the throaty sound of his laughter when Anton says something funny. I feel it vibrate inside my chest.
Ignoring him, I try to enjoy my meal. The food is spectacular, and the first glass of wine is making its way into my bloodstream. The sun is setting outside the windows, burnishing the lake and setting it on fire.
Much like my face.
A hand lands on my knee. No—not even a hand, just two of Ian’s fingertips. He’s merely stroking my kneecap with a feather-light touch.
Okay. Wow. Taking a gulp of my wine, I focus my attention on Charli so nobody will notice. But my body has other ideas. As he continues this delicate assault, I feel a flutter between my thighs. It would be so easy for his hand to slide a few inches to the left…
But it doesn’t. And when he finally places his palm over my knee, the touch is almost polite. It just rests there, warm and solid.
Nobody notices, except for me. I notice. A lot. My neck is hot, and my nipples harden. All from the touch of his hand.
My wine glass is suddenly empty, and the caterer comes by to refill my glass. Ian removes his hand, and as the pink wine fills my glass, I feel bereft.
The hand does not return. But I expect it to, so I spend the rest of the meal in heightened anticipation. And, fine, arousal.
I have no chill. It’s never been more apparent to me in my life. I overthink absolutely everything, even a hand on my knee. And I can’t even follow the conversation, because I’m basically quivering in anticipation of what might happen next.
Suddenly, people are pushing back their chairs from the table. But they all pause when the cute Italian caterer speaks. “Signore e signori, I’m leaving a selection of desserts in the refrigerator. We’ll be back in the morning with pastries and other breakfast items. Can I pour anyone another drink before I go?”
“Oh. Me,” I say breathlessly. Another drink sounds like a fine idea. I carry my glass over to the bar where he’s keeping the wine.
