Page 57 of Attraction (Mobsters + Billionaires 3)
“Ford, what happened?”
I hold up my hand, shaking my head.
A kaleidoscope of emotions crosses Luca’s face, but he doesn’t push me.
“Why don’t we go inside, get some tea, wash your hands, and maybe, I don’t know, do some breathing or meditation. Yes?” he asks, holding his hand out to me.
I stare at his hand, then look into his concerned eyes and nod. He supports my elbow, helping me stand.
It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve reacted like this, and now that the adrenaline has washed through me, I’m shaking even more.
He peers into my eyes, rubbing his chest. “We need to get you some carbs. You got anything here I can whip up quick? Some pasta or something?”
“Okay.”
“Can I put my arm around you as we go up the steps? I’m not trying to get overly familiar with you, I promise.”
A tear tracks down my cheek, made cold by the winter air. I nod.
His eyes follow the path of the tear, and his jaw clenches. Taking off his jacket, he sets it on my shoulders like a cloak. I inhale sharply at the contact and warmth.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes. Better.”
Assessing me, he asks, “Would you rather take my arm?”
I manufacture a small smile before linking my arm with his while holding on to his jacket with my other hand. Humiliated, I continue to tear up, unable to stop.
We make our way up the stairs and into the house without incident, and he closes the front door with a soft click.
He ushers me into my kitchen and walks me over to the sink, where he washes my hands with an achingly gentle touch.
Teardrops make plopping noises in the wet sink, and my jaw trembles as I bite back a sob.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice quivering. “My palms feel so much better.”
He nods. “Does tea sound good?”
“H-hot chocolate,” I respond, trying to pull myself together.
“Hot chocolate it is.”
I shiver and snake my arms into his coat. It’s both too big and too small. His shoulders are broader, but his arms are shorter, and I sniff, chuckling at how ridiculous I must look.
He moves around my kitchen, fussing with pots and pans and things, the sounds oddly comforting.
I sit in the little reading nook just off the kitchen, looking out onto the little patio I never use.
A few minutes later, he sits next to me on my funky little couch with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and… “Marshmallows,” I say with a surprised smile. “My favorite.”
I pick up my mug, warming my battered palms on the hot earthenware before taking a sip.
“Mm. You actually used enough of the mix.”
He raises his brow. “No Italian in the history of ever has made weak hot cocoa.”
A weird giggle escapes my mouth, and I cover it by taking another sip. “You made this with milk, not water.”
