Ally’s elbow makes contact with my side again. “Oh my gosh, he’s coming our way.”
My poor heart feels like it’s trying to jump out of my chest, but I ignore the impending heart attack. After taking a big gulp of my wine, I press my glass into Ally’s hand. “I have to go.”
I’m gone before she can protest, or worse, before she can ask more questions. It’s both a blessing and a curse knowing someone as well as Ally and I do. Hiding stuff from each other is a real challenge.
My heels click on the gray vinyl floor as I hurry through the throng of people, past the closest restroom, and down the staff-only corridor until I come to a door that says: “Employees Only.” It’s mostly used as a break room with a table and two chairs cramped in one corner and a small sink in the other one.
I step up to the mirror and flinch at my reflection. My face is flushed, my eyes wide. Too wide, too wild.
Is this what I looked like the night I met him?
The feverish feeling is certainly the same.
Turning on the faucet, I let cold water run over my hands, rubbing it up my wrists and lower arms too.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing and the sound of the running water. I’ve done the same thing a million times during meditation, so this should be a walk in the park.
Only, it doesn’t work this time. Neither my racing pulse, nor my spinning mind, calm down.
Squeezing my eyes shut so tightly it’s almost painful, I try again.
It has to work, or I have to come up with an excuse to go home. Papà wouldn’t be happy with me, but that’s not anything new.
I open my eyes and turn off the faucet.
Then I glance into the mirror and squeak.
Matteo stares back at me with the same intensity he did before. He doesn’t say a single word, just stares at me like he’s never truly seen me. His gaze roams over me from top to bottom before it makes its way back to my face, heating up my body even more under his scrutiny.
It’s too much. Too intense. My brain is overwhelmed at the way my body reacts to him. Again. The last time I was able to write it off as a reaction to my husband’s infidelity, but what’s my excuse this time?
I swallow and break eye contact, attempting to focus on what I was doing before he interrupted me, and grab a paper towel from the dispenser to dry my hands.
Once I’m done, I toss it into the trash and turn around. “What are you doing here, Matteo?”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “You know who I am?”
I shrug.
“Answer me.”
When I stay quiet, he stalks toward me. Yes, this man doesn’t walk, he stalks. My inner submissive fights the urge to back away from him and obey. SinceIdon’t want to do either, I stand my ground and let him close the distance between us.
Just like that, he’s invading my space, overpowering my senses once more.
My hormones sigh in relief at his scent, like they’re welcoming an old lover instead of a cold-blooded killer. But man, he does smell good. I’m not even sure what it is. Something woodsy with a hint of oranges. Whatever it is, it’s addictive.
Two seconds later, he’s touching me. It’s an innocent touch, only his fingers at my temple, brushing a strand of hair out of my face, but he might as well be running his fingers all over my naked flesh with the way my body ignites into little bursts of flames everywhere.
I wonder if he can see the reaction in my eyes, or if I appear composed on the outside.
His fingers brush down my throat, and I fight the desire to lower my lids, blinking rapidly instead.
Then his hand circles my throat and he squeezes. “When I ask you a question, passerotta, I expect an answer. Understood?”
He tightens his grip, and my gasp gets stuck halfway down, so I nod.
“Good girl.”