her parents were waking up to the joyful news right about…Lili’s phone started to vibrate. Now.
“That’s Mom,” Cara said as her own phone rang out with Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies,” which meant Dad was leaving a message on Lili’s phone. “ Ciao , Mom.”
Lili shook her head fiercely, the signal for I’m-not-here-to-anyone-especially-parents . Cara raised a razor-thin eyebrow and uh-huh-ed and um-ed through the conversation before ringing off.
“You need to call her. Il Duce’s on the warpath.”
“Who’s Il Duce?” Jack’s crisp voice penetrated through Lili’s mental fog as his bare feet whispered across the plush carpet.
“My father,” Lili said. “I’ve brought shame upon the entire family.”
She stared at Jack, daring him to come up with some smug, charming response so she could punch him in the arm. His face registered only concern. He slid an arm around her waist and slipped his fingers below the border of her cargo pants, caressing. A chef’s hands, scarred and calloused. She had never felt so grateful for the touch of another human being.
Moving behind her, he skated his hand beneath her tank top while his muscle-corded forearm banded beneath her breasts. Usually, when a guy cradled her, she felt big and graceless, but not with Jack. He was the right size for her, and dare she say it, she was the right size for him. She allowed her body to rest into Jack’s hardness and strength, marveling at how quickly the tremor abated.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, his lips tickling her ear. She didn’t believe a word of it but her rapidly heating skin clearly appreciated the effort. If it had been Marco, he would have made some offhand comment about her loveable squishiness.
Cara’s lips formed a grim seal; then she said, “Well, there’s work to be done. Jack, you’re still coming to Casa DeLuca for dinner tonight?”
Lili’s discomfort zone expanded alarmingly. Her father and the man she had publicly groped, both at the same table with easily accessible steak knives, her matchmaking mother, and Aunt Sylvia wringing a novena out of the rosary beads.
“Counting down the hours,” Jack said easily.
Cara’s eyes scanned her phone, then squinted up at Lili. “Now, no more PDA, you two, especially during the taping. There’s only so much we can edit out.” Her sister left, leaving a blast of air in her wake that was completely disproportionate to her slight frame.
Jack still held tight, his strong arm feeling so good twined around her. Her body prickled with pleasure before ratcheting up to high alert. She told herself there’d be no more kissing. She was most insistent.
“How are we doing?” he asked, low and seductive.
The sheer absurdity of the situation crashed down on her hard. Was there such a thing as a sympathy concussion? Because if there was, she must have it. Considerable damage to her gray matter could be the only way to explain her presence in that video, in this man’s hotel room, and in his solid, ripped arms.
She jerked away. “You just can’t stop, can you?”
“I told you I can’t help flirting with hot women. You’re a hot woman, so you’ll just have to put up with it. Most women would be happy to receive this kind of attention.”
Perhaps, but in the cold light of day, when forced to address your panda eye makeup and the run in your stockings, clarity kicks in like a bitch. This was no longer a bar on a steamy summer night crawling with tipsy Frenchmen, stunning Brits, and oversexed Italian girls. This was the morning after the night before. The Brit was still hot. She was just a punch line on the Web.
“I’m not most women”—she was certainly not hot—“and right now, I’m more concerned with my reputation. And the fact I’m known all over the Twittersphere as the fat chick.”
“You’ve changed your tune from ten minutes ago.”
“Ten minutes ago, I was anonymous Kilroy bait in a bar. Now I’m famous.”
He
“That’s Mom,” Cara said as her own phone rang out with Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies,” which meant Dad was leaving a message on Lili’s phone. “ Ciao , Mom.”
Lili shook her head fiercely, the signal for I’m-not-here-to-anyone-especially-parents . Cara raised a razor-thin eyebrow and uh-huh-ed and um-ed through the conversation before ringing off.
“You need to call her. Il Duce’s on the warpath.”
“Who’s Il Duce?” Jack’s crisp voice penetrated through Lili’s mental fog as his bare feet whispered across the plush carpet.
“My father,” Lili said. “I’ve brought shame upon the entire family.”
She stared at Jack, daring him to come up with some smug, charming response so she could punch him in the arm. His face registered only concern. He slid an arm around her waist and slipped his fingers below the border of her cargo pants, caressing. A chef’s hands, scarred and calloused. She had never felt so grateful for the touch of another human being.
Moving behind her, he skated his hand beneath her tank top while his muscle-corded forearm banded beneath her breasts. Usually, when a guy cradled her, she felt big and graceless, but not with Jack. He was the right size for her, and dare she say it, she was the right size for him. She allowed her body to rest into Jack’s hardness and strength, marveling at how quickly the tremor abated.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, his lips tickling her ear. She didn’t believe a word of it but her rapidly heating skin clearly appreciated the effort. If it had been Marco, he would have made some offhand comment about her loveable squishiness.
Cara’s lips formed a grim seal; then she said, “Well, there’s work to be done. Jack, you’re still coming to Casa DeLuca for dinner tonight?”
Lili’s discomfort zone expanded alarmingly. Her father and the man she had publicly groped, both at the same table with easily accessible steak knives, her matchmaking mother, and Aunt Sylvia wringing a novena out of the rosary beads.
“Counting down the hours,” Jack said easily.
Cara’s eyes scanned her phone, then squinted up at Lili. “Now, no more PDA, you two, especially during the taping. There’s only so much we can edit out.” Her sister left, leaving a blast of air in her wake that was completely disproportionate to her slight frame.
Jack still held tight, his strong arm feeling so good twined around her. Her body prickled with pleasure before ratcheting up to high alert. She told herself there’d be no more kissing. She was most insistent.
“How are we doing?” he asked, low and seductive.
The sheer absurdity of the situation crashed down on her hard. Was there such a thing as a sympathy concussion? Because if there was, she must have it. Considerable damage to her gray matter could be the only way to explain her presence in that video, in this man’s hotel room, and in his solid, ripped arms.
She jerked away. “You just can’t stop, can you?”
“I told you I can’t help flirting with hot women. You’re a hot woman, so you’ll just have to put up with it. Most women would be happy to receive this kind of attention.”
Perhaps, but in the cold light of day, when forced to address your panda eye makeup and the run in your stockings, clarity kicks in like a bitch. This was no longer a bar on a steamy summer night crawling with tipsy Frenchmen, stunning Brits, and oversexed Italian girls. This was the morning after the night before. The Brit was still hot. She was just a punch line on the Web.
“I’m not most women”—she was certainly not hot—“and right now, I’m more concerned with my reputation. And the fact I’m known all over the Twittersphere as the fat chick.”
“You’ve changed your tune from ten minutes ago.”
“Ten minutes ago, I was anonymous Kilroy bait in a bar. Now I’m famous.”
He
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