Read Online Ready for You by Celia Juliano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Celia Juliano
Tags: Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, Holidays
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forehead.
“I’ve got to get back,” he said. He sounded like he used to when he smoked too many cigarettes, raspy and dry.
“Have a good day. Talk to you later,” she said. She smiled as she left the truck. She waved before she went into her front door.
He couldn’t smile. His neck bristled with cold sweat. He tightened his hold on the steering wheel and leaned his head on it. He shut his eyes but he still saw her, still felt her presence. Shit. He faced forward and shifted the gear into drive. The curtains of her window twitched. He thought she stood there, waving. He held up his hand then drove down the street. He shouldn’t call. He should end this now. Or he should get her into bed, to prove she was just another woman who didn’t mean any more to him than the rest.
His body clenched as the truck bounced forward in his sudden stop. He threw it into park and jumped out, slamming the door. He took a deep breath. The moist air cooled him but he had to remind himself to breathe and take the steps into the house. A minute later, he came out again. He’d forgotten his tools. He shook his head. Something had to change or he’d go off the edge. Wrong, he was already there, hanging on a jagged cliff top with his fingers, scrabbling to keep hold. He shut his eyes. Below him, below the cliff, was a deep, clear blue lake. Chiara swam then rolled onto her back and floated, naked, calling to him. He let go.
Liquid warmth flowed through him as he walked back into the job, toolbox in hand. He would change things, all right, even if he had to play dirty to do it.
Chapter Nine
Chiara watched Rocco from the living room window. He leaned his head on the steering wheel of his truck for a moment. Her throat tightened. Did he not want to leave or did he regret meeting her? He drove away. She licked her lips. She could still taste the strong Italian roast coffee he’d drunk.
She laughed and twirled. Then she sat down, dizzy from her movement and their kisses. Just remembering them, her head lightened--she wondered if she could float off the couch. Maybe it was possible to trust someone who also made her feel on fire and like the sexiest woman she could be. She’d never told anyone, not even Phil or Isabella, how she felt about her family calling her dirty girl or about Jenny. Isabella probably knew anyway, but Phil didn’t know her parents ever called her that. He’d probably wrinkle his nose at her if he did.
Unbridled hope and passion toward Rocco coursed through her. She needed to talk about him, or hear about him. But there was no one. She wouldn’t trust even Isabella with this secret. She rose and ambled into the kitchen. What to do about dinner? She had some chicken in the fridge. Mrs. Buffone’s lemon chicken was delicious--the boys would love it. She could call and get the recipe and if she happened to ask how the family was and Mrs. Buffone happened to mention Rocco…Chiara ran to the phone.
Mrs. Buffone answered cheerfully and Chiara was at once put at ease while butterflies flitted in her stomach. “Why don’t you join us for lunch, dear,” Mrs. Buffone asked. “Sabrina, you remember, my younger son Rocco’s daughter, agrees. We’d love to have you over.”
Chiara’s smile widened. “If you’re sure…”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, I can be there in ten minutes. May I bring anything?”
“No, thank you. See you soon. You remember the address?”
“Yes, thanks.” Chiara said goodbye before she started babbling.
After hugs and greetings were exchanged, Sabrina and Mrs. Buffone left Chiara in the living room for a moment to check on lunch. She sat on the wide navy blue sofa. Turning, she noticed a grouping of family photos on the table behind her. Her eye was drawn to one of Rocco. She picked it up and studied it. He smiled broadly, very young, but sexy in his baseball
“I’ve got to get back,” he said. He sounded like he used to when he smoked too many cigarettes, raspy and dry.
“Have a good day. Talk to you later,” she said. She smiled as she left the truck. She waved before she went into her front door.
He couldn’t smile. His neck bristled with cold sweat. He tightened his hold on the steering wheel and leaned his head on it. He shut his eyes but he still saw her, still felt her presence. Shit. He faced forward and shifted the gear into drive. The curtains of her window twitched. He thought she stood there, waving. He held up his hand then drove down the street. He shouldn’t call. He should end this now. Or he should get her into bed, to prove she was just another woman who didn’t mean any more to him than the rest.
His body clenched as the truck bounced forward in his sudden stop. He threw it into park and jumped out, slamming the door. He took a deep breath. The moist air cooled him but he had to remind himself to breathe and take the steps into the house. A minute later, he came out again. He’d forgotten his tools. He shook his head. Something had to change or he’d go off the edge. Wrong, he was already there, hanging on a jagged cliff top with his fingers, scrabbling to keep hold. He shut his eyes. Below him, below the cliff, was a deep, clear blue lake. Chiara swam then rolled onto her back and floated, naked, calling to him. He let go.
Liquid warmth flowed through him as he walked back into the job, toolbox in hand. He would change things, all right, even if he had to play dirty to do it.
Chapter Nine
Chiara watched Rocco from the living room window. He leaned his head on the steering wheel of his truck for a moment. Her throat tightened. Did he not want to leave or did he regret meeting her? He drove away. She licked her lips. She could still taste the strong Italian roast coffee he’d drunk.
She laughed and twirled. Then she sat down, dizzy from her movement and their kisses. Just remembering them, her head lightened--she wondered if she could float off the couch. Maybe it was possible to trust someone who also made her feel on fire and like the sexiest woman she could be. She’d never told anyone, not even Phil or Isabella, how she felt about her family calling her dirty girl or about Jenny. Isabella probably knew anyway, but Phil didn’t know her parents ever called her that. He’d probably wrinkle his nose at her if he did.
Unbridled hope and passion toward Rocco coursed through her. She needed to talk about him, or hear about him. But there was no one. She wouldn’t trust even Isabella with this secret. She rose and ambled into the kitchen. What to do about dinner? She had some chicken in the fridge. Mrs. Buffone’s lemon chicken was delicious--the boys would love it. She could call and get the recipe and if she happened to ask how the family was and Mrs. Buffone happened to mention Rocco…Chiara ran to the phone.
Mrs. Buffone answered cheerfully and Chiara was at once put at ease while butterflies flitted in her stomach. “Why don’t you join us for lunch, dear,” Mrs. Buffone asked. “Sabrina, you remember, my younger son Rocco’s daughter, agrees. We’d love to have you over.”
Chiara’s smile widened. “If you’re sure…”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, I can be there in ten minutes. May I bring anything?”
“No, thank you. See you soon. You remember the address?”
“Yes, thanks.” Chiara said goodbye before she started babbling.
After hugs and greetings were exchanged, Sabrina and Mrs. Buffone left Chiara in the living room for a moment to check on lunch. She sat on the wide navy blue sofa. Turning, she noticed a grouping of family photos on the table behind her. Her eye was drawn to one of Rocco. She picked it up and studied it. He smiled broadly, very young, but sexy in his baseball
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