all, she would’ve called and made up some story about where she was. But she hadn’t been thinking, not clearly, anyway.
She wrapped herself in the towel and found a comb. She ran it through her hair. Slowly, she opened the door to the bedroom. Vincente sat up in the bed, pillows propped behind him. She held the towel around her, gripped tightly in her hand. A tray with coffee cups, fruit, and toast was also on the bed.
“How’d you get that so fast?” she said, walking to the edge of the bed.
“I didn’t. We have a couple who works for us—Marcella and Rudy.”
Of course they did. Growing up, everyone in the neighborhood knew the DeGrazias had made their fortune illegally—they’d just been too clever to get caught. Like clichés, rumors invariably had a core of truth.
Gina glanced around, looking for where her clothes had landed. Vincente—or the maid—must have picked them up, because they were now folded neatly on the armchair. The clock shone six-thirty.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” she said.
“Nice of you to be concerned about my schedule.” His deadpan expression was overridden by the sarcastic acid in his tone. “Let’s eat something and then we can figure out what you’re going to tell your parents.”
“We? There is no we.” Gina walked to the chair and picked up her clothes. When she turned to go back into the bathroom, Vincente slid from the bed and intercepted her. He blocked her way. She stepped to the side, but he was quicker. He grabbed her arm.
“I know you can handle things yourself. But you don’t have to. Let’s not get into a stubborn contest, because I’ll win.”
His touch burned through her. His words cut to her core. He knew she could handle things, but offered help. Acceptance, of herself, and of help, tested her. She wanted to be softer, strong but tender, but she remained stiff, stuck.
Pinning her against him, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He was strong, his muscles flexed as he walked, carrying her like she’d heft a bag of flour. He set her on the bed. He’d moved her, not just physically.
She flopped backward onto the bed and pressed her palms into her eyes. No crying.
Vincente pulled her up and held her against his bare chest. His breathing was steady. After a few minutes, her thoughts fled, leaving her free to be in the moment. She wrapped her arms around his waist. She took in a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale. His scent—sex and sweat and man—made her tingle again. She rolled her eyes. Hadn’t she had enough last night? She closed her eyes. What she really wanted right now was to be held. And Vincente was giving that to her. He smoothed her hair.
“Sit up there and we’ll eat,” he said.
Gina scooted back and leaned against the propped-up pillows. She kept her eyes off Vincente. His nakedness was too enticing. She caught a flash of his hard body as he hopped back in the bed. If only he was truly as kind as he was hot. But he couldn’t be. No man could live up to that, not in her experience.
“How do you like your coffee?”
“Black,” Gina said.
“Me too.” He handed her a mug and a plate of toast and fruit.
Gina bit into the toast—cold. That’s what she got for her hot head—cold toast. She dropped it to the plate and chuckled.
“What’s funny?” He glanced at her and popped a slice of strawberry into his mouth.
“Me.” She shrugged.
“I didn’t want to say anything…” He smiled.
Cold toast was unimportant next to the warmth of his smile. She pushed at his shoulder, this time gently, not in anger, as she had before.
“What’d I tell you about that?” He sipped his coffee.
“You gonna do something about it?” Gina chewed a few grapes.
“Might.”
“You should’ve asked for a bigger breakfast, then.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I thought you had to go to work.”
“I’m the boss. I can take the day off. You need more attention than our current
She wrapped herself in the towel and found a comb. She ran it through her hair. Slowly, she opened the door to the bedroom. Vincente sat up in the bed, pillows propped behind him. She held the towel around her, gripped tightly in her hand. A tray with coffee cups, fruit, and toast was also on the bed.
“How’d you get that so fast?” she said, walking to the edge of the bed.
“I didn’t. We have a couple who works for us—Marcella and Rudy.”
Of course they did. Growing up, everyone in the neighborhood knew the DeGrazias had made their fortune illegally—they’d just been too clever to get caught. Like clichés, rumors invariably had a core of truth.
Gina glanced around, looking for where her clothes had landed. Vincente—or the maid—must have picked them up, because they were now folded neatly on the armchair. The clock shone six-thirty.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” she said.
“Nice of you to be concerned about my schedule.” His deadpan expression was overridden by the sarcastic acid in his tone. “Let’s eat something and then we can figure out what you’re going to tell your parents.”
“We? There is no we.” Gina walked to the chair and picked up her clothes. When she turned to go back into the bathroom, Vincente slid from the bed and intercepted her. He blocked her way. She stepped to the side, but he was quicker. He grabbed her arm.
“I know you can handle things yourself. But you don’t have to. Let’s not get into a stubborn contest, because I’ll win.”
His touch burned through her. His words cut to her core. He knew she could handle things, but offered help. Acceptance, of herself, and of help, tested her. She wanted to be softer, strong but tender, but she remained stiff, stuck.
Pinning her against him, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He was strong, his muscles flexed as he walked, carrying her like she’d heft a bag of flour. He set her on the bed. He’d moved her, not just physically.
She flopped backward onto the bed and pressed her palms into her eyes. No crying.
Vincente pulled her up and held her against his bare chest. His breathing was steady. After a few minutes, her thoughts fled, leaving her free to be in the moment. She wrapped her arms around his waist. She took in a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale. His scent—sex and sweat and man—made her tingle again. She rolled her eyes. Hadn’t she had enough last night? She closed her eyes. What she really wanted right now was to be held. And Vincente was giving that to her. He smoothed her hair.
“Sit up there and we’ll eat,” he said.
Gina scooted back and leaned against the propped-up pillows. She kept her eyes off Vincente. His nakedness was too enticing. She caught a flash of his hard body as he hopped back in the bed. If only he was truly as kind as he was hot. But he couldn’t be. No man could live up to that, not in her experience.
“How do you like your coffee?”
“Black,” Gina said.
“Me too.” He handed her a mug and a plate of toast and fruit.
Gina bit into the toast—cold. That’s what she got for her hot head—cold toast. She dropped it to the plate and chuckled.
“What’s funny?” He glanced at her and popped a slice of strawberry into his mouth.
“Me.” She shrugged.
“I didn’t want to say anything…” He smiled.
Cold toast was unimportant next to the warmth of his smile. She pushed at his shoulder, this time gently, not in anger, as she had before.
“What’d I tell you about that?” He sipped his coffee.
“You gonna do something about it?” Gina chewed a few grapes.
“Might.”
“You should’ve asked for a bigger breakfast, then.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I thought you had to go to work.”
“I’m the boss. I can take the day off. You need more attention than our current
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