his mischievous tone and sparkling eyes, I agreed with him. He could make whatever rules he wanted.
“If I don’t agree—what? Off with my head?”
He gave me a sly look. “We have much better ways of getting you to comply, bella .”
That I could not risk. So we’d be playing the game his way. “You start. Ask away.”
“Who is your favorite author? Wait, don’t answer. I already know. Jane Austen.”
I wanted to be outraged, but just couldn’t because he was right. Jane Austen was my favorite author. “How did you . . . ?”
“I’ve found that most of the women that I have most enjoyed being with list Austen as their favorite author.”
What was he saying? That he enjoyed being with me more than he did other people? Was this some kind of admission that was just going over my head? A whole herd of butterflies took to wing in my stomach.
“What about you?” I asked in between bites, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
He looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at me. “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t say Hemingway or Faust. I hate those guys.”
That made him laugh. “I also like J. R. R. Tolkien.”
“You like fantasy?” He nodded. I had to admit it—he surprised me. Then again, he already lived in a fantasy world with castles and kings and huge mountains. Maybe he could relate to it.
“Have you read any of his works?”
“I tried to read the Lord of the Rings series but could not get past that Tom Bombadil character. The movies were much better. That Legolas guy was seriously hot.” Not Nico hot, but still.
He nudged me with his shoulder. “I thought you preferred dark-haired men.”
I gulped and begged my heart to stay inside my chest. “Please don’t tell Prince Eric that I’ve been fictionally unfaithful to him.”
He laughed again. “Your turn to ask a question.”
“I feel stupid asking this, but what language do you actually speak?”
“English.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “You know what I mean.”
He had his chin resting on his shoulder so that all I would have to do is turn my head and our lips would be just a kiss apart. So I kept my attention focused on my ever-dwindling ice cream. “Monterrans speak Italian. We have a lot of different slang terms, some German and French words and phrases thrown in. The accent is what sets us apart. It’s like the difference between British English and American English. You can understand one another, but the accents are noticeable.”
“That’s pretty impressive, being bilingual. I had a couple years of Spanish as an undergrad, but it didn’t really stick.”
“Not just bilingual. I also speak German, French, and can get by in Spanish.” He nudged my shoulder again. “Impressed?”
Obviously. “No.” I started scarfing down the rest of my food, needing to be done and leave. Nico was getting to me. Every sense was heightened, every nerve ending painfully excited, and he was making me laugh and like him even more.
As if he could sense my inner turmoil, he jumped off the counter and came to stand right in front of me, pressing his legs against mine and putting his hands on either side of me, trapping me in place.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a woman do that before.”
“What?” I refused to meet his eyes.
“Eat.”
Now I had to look up to see if he was serious, or if he was teasing me. Serious. “Spend a lot of time watching women eat, do you?”
“You might be surprised. A lot of state dinners and balls, things like that. Most women push the salad around on their plate without ever eating any of it.”
That was stupid. “I like to eat.”
He reached over and took the spoon and ice cream out of my hands, gently placing them on the counter. “I like that you like to eat.”
My breath caught. “That’s kind of a weird thing to like. Why would you like that?”
He leaned in. “Because an appetite for one thing indicates appetites
“If I don’t agree—what? Off with my head?”
He gave me a sly look. “We have much better ways of getting you to comply, bella .”
That I could not risk. So we’d be playing the game his way. “You start. Ask away.”
“Who is your favorite author? Wait, don’t answer. I already know. Jane Austen.”
I wanted to be outraged, but just couldn’t because he was right. Jane Austen was my favorite author. “How did you . . . ?”
“I’ve found that most of the women that I have most enjoyed being with list Austen as their favorite author.”
What was he saying? That he enjoyed being with me more than he did other people? Was this some kind of admission that was just going over my head? A whole herd of butterflies took to wing in my stomach.
“What about you?” I asked in between bites, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
He looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at me. “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t say Hemingway or Faust. I hate those guys.”
That made him laugh. “I also like J. R. R. Tolkien.”
“You like fantasy?” He nodded. I had to admit it—he surprised me. Then again, he already lived in a fantasy world with castles and kings and huge mountains. Maybe he could relate to it.
“Have you read any of his works?”
“I tried to read the Lord of the Rings series but could not get past that Tom Bombadil character. The movies were much better. That Legolas guy was seriously hot.” Not Nico hot, but still.
He nudged me with his shoulder. “I thought you preferred dark-haired men.”
I gulped and begged my heart to stay inside my chest. “Please don’t tell Prince Eric that I’ve been fictionally unfaithful to him.”
He laughed again. “Your turn to ask a question.”
“I feel stupid asking this, but what language do you actually speak?”
“English.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “You know what I mean.”
He had his chin resting on his shoulder so that all I would have to do is turn my head and our lips would be just a kiss apart. So I kept my attention focused on my ever-dwindling ice cream. “Monterrans speak Italian. We have a lot of different slang terms, some German and French words and phrases thrown in. The accent is what sets us apart. It’s like the difference between British English and American English. You can understand one another, but the accents are noticeable.”
“That’s pretty impressive, being bilingual. I had a couple years of Spanish as an undergrad, but it didn’t really stick.”
“Not just bilingual. I also speak German, French, and can get by in Spanish.” He nudged my shoulder again. “Impressed?”
Obviously. “No.” I started scarfing down the rest of my food, needing to be done and leave. Nico was getting to me. Every sense was heightened, every nerve ending painfully excited, and he was making me laugh and like him even more.
As if he could sense my inner turmoil, he jumped off the counter and came to stand right in front of me, pressing his legs against mine and putting his hands on either side of me, trapping me in place.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a woman do that before.”
“What?” I refused to meet his eyes.
“Eat.”
Now I had to look up to see if he was serious, or if he was teasing me. Serious. “Spend a lot of time watching women eat, do you?”
“You might be surprised. A lot of state dinners and balls, things like that. Most women push the salad around on their plate without ever eating any of it.”
That was stupid. “I like to eat.”
He reached over and took the spoon and ice cream out of my hands, gently placing them on the counter. “I like that you like to eat.”
My breath caught. “That’s kind of a weird thing to like. Why would you like that?”
He leaned in. “Because an appetite for one thing indicates appetites
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