Page 63 of My Infatuation with Isabella

“I mean, c’mon.” I smother it in my fake exasperation, but I’m still nowhere near as good as him. “That’s not even a word we learn at school.”

“I’ve tried. You can’t use that word in a sentence without sounding like a pompous snob.”

“Why are you flashing your Harvard Law degree at us, Robert?”

That finally breaks his straight face, and he laughs. On the surface, everything seems lighthearted, but he’s in a very weird mood. It’s almost like Jekyll and Hyde have come out to play at the same time. He’s calm, yet I can sense a raging storm beneath it. He seems amused, but his eyes are so dangerously dark he looks like he could attack me at any second. And if he were to attack me, I’m not sure if he would rip my clothes off or wrap his hands around my throat. The way he keeps looking at me tells me he’s capable of both. Despite this, the conversation continues with no stilted silences. That’s how it’s always been with him.

“All I’m saying is that there are different standards of beauty for women compared to men,” I say, ignoring every gut instinct that’s telling me I’m heading toward a ton of trouble. “And because of these double standards, men can just throw on a T-shirt and an old pair of jeans and still be considered hot. Women have to wax and wear makeup...”

“They don’t.”

“...do their hair...”

“Nope. Not required.”

“...and dress in sexy clothes.”

“You would still look sexy in a black plastic bag. What exactly is your point?”

He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt. I bite my lip, trying not to salivate. He is getting sexier by the second. I’m grateful for the warmth of the fire because it’s a worthy excuse for how flustered I must look right now.

“Did you see how Tommy was dressed today? If I had to dress like that, it’d be...frowned upon. I’m just saying men have it easier than women because you have less to worry about when it comes to your appearance. Case in point. How long did it take you to get ready this evening?”

He shrugs. “‘Bout fifteen minutes.”

“It took me fifteen minutes just to get into this dress.”

“I could get you out of it much quicker.”

We’ve talked about nothing and everything for over an hour, and every few minutes he’ll drop a flirty comment, but it’s been subtle so far. However, that particular comment was very direct, very blatant. I wait for him to awkwardly cover it up, make it seem like he didn’t mean to say that, but he doesn’t try to take it back.

“That was inappropriate,” I say softly, and he doesn’t respond. “Don’t you think that was inappropriate?”

“WhatdoI think?” He shifts on the couch, angling his body toward me, and his knee brushes against mine. “I think that...I overthink, and I’ve reached a point where I don’t give a shit about what’s appropriate anymore. Besides, does it really matter what I think...what anyone thinks? What did Tommy say again? He said...we don’t have control of our thoughts, and he’s right. Thoughts can be toxic...and destructive...and uncontrollable. If I could control my thoughts, I wouldn’t be here...yet here I am.”

The way he says it is so cryptic, and I can’t discern if he meanshereat The Royale orherewith me orhere...in life.

“Tommy...” I keep curious eyes on him because that statement confuses me. “Tommy said that on the show this morning. Do you listen to the show?”

“Uh...yeah. Every. Fucking. Day. It’s a very unhealthy habit of mine.”

There’s that weird mood again. He’s calm but anger and resentment are simmering just below the surface.

“That’s stalking on a whole new level,” I tease to test the waters of his volatility.

He laughs, and the tension eases a fraction. “I suppose it is. I’ve learned a lot about you listening to that show.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“I’ve learned that...you like avocado on toast for breakfast, quinoa bowls on Thursday nights, and your meals are strictly vegan three days a week. I know that you like champagne and piña coladas, but you haven’t touched vodka since high school. Just the smell of it makes you gag.”

He stretches one arm out along the back of the couch and leans a little closer, close enough for his cologne to completely overwhelm my senses. His gaze drops to my bare thighs, and he’s a little hesitant when he moves his other hand. Very lightly, his index finger traces a small circle over my knee. I jolt at the contact, my thighs clenching together. The movement is slight, but I know he notices because even with his head lowered, I can see the smile that curves on his lips. He seems to be taking pleasure in my discomfort.

“I know that you were over the moon when you moved out of your mom’s house,” he continues, still drawing tiny patterns on my skin. “And I know you were even more excited when you bought yourself a new car.”

“Hmm...not much has changed over the years, De Lorenzo. You know so much about me, yet I still feel like I know nothing about you.”

He lifts his eyes from my thighs to look at me, the light of the fire dancing on his face. “You were and still are the only person who can rile me up in a matter of seconds. You have to know the exact location of all my buttons to be able to push them with such precision.”

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