Page 7 of Her Dirty Secret
But I don’t.
“Give me five minutes.”
“Is that five minutes in real time or woman time?”
“You’ve already wasted thirty seconds asking me that,” I reply in mock indignation. And I hang up.
I look around my apartment. Can I really do this? Can I really jet off to a foreign country at the last minute with a ridiculously hot Italian man I just met a few hours ago?
Even asking the questions in my head makes me laugh.
Hell. Yes.
I don’t waste any more time thinking. I bolt into the bedroom, unearth my passport from the bottom of my desk drawer, thanking God I got one just in case, dig the suitcase out of my closet, and pack every loose article of clothing I can get my hands on, finishing with all of my toiletries and electronics. I also throw a few books into my purse for good measure. I race downstairs faster than I knew possible. And he’s really there, leaning against the car.
When he sees me, he beams. “That was seven minutes, but I’ll forgive you.”
I throw him a mock glare. “You realize this is crazy, right?”
He crosses the distance between us quickly, taking the suitcase from my hand and hovering over me. He’s just the perfect half a head taller than my five feet, seven inches. And his dark eyes are filled with fire. He looks deeply into my eyes, his warm breath making me dizzy.
“You realize that’s what makes it so much fun, right?” he asks lowly. With a wink, he pulls away and neatly seats my suitcase in his open trunk, right next to his own.
And I do realize that he’s right. This is hands-down one of the craziest and most exciting things I’ve ever done. And that’s saying something.
As we slide into the car, he looks over at me. “You have a passport, right?”
I fish it out of my purse and wave it in the air at him.
“Good,” he says, grinning. “Let’s go.”
As we drive, I pepper him with questions about the trip. I learn he’s meeting a dozen or so friends, one of whom shares a house there, so there may be some bunking up, or I can always stay in a hotel. There will be no need to arrange additional transportation, as they’re meeting in Naples and driving from there. And they’ll be there a few weeks.
A few weeks in paradise. The more he talks, the better it sounds.
“You needn’t stay the whole time,” he assures me.
I wave a hand dismissively. “Spontaneous, remember? Let’s get there and see what happens.”
“If that’s what you wish. But please don’t do anything that could jeopardize your job on my account.”
“They won’t fire me,” I assure him. “I work in a music store. They’re all a bunch of flakes, and they’re used to people pulling shit like this. Besides, it’s not like I need the money anyway.” I look out the window to hide the flush in my cheeks. I hadn’t intended to say that last part.
“There’s no shame in having money,” he assures me, resting his hand briefly on my knee. “That you continue to work anyway says you’re not content to waste your days shopping and tanning.”
Shaken from my pity party, I turn to him and laugh. “Isn’t that exactly what we’re about to do?” I point out.
He smiles and shakes his head. “When you do it a little while, it’s a holiday. When you do it all the time, it’s a lifestyle. Big difference.” He lets that sink in but continues on when I make no reply. “What instrument do you play?”
I almost give him a hard time for assuming I play an instrument because I work at a music store. But he’s called me out on that kind of bullshit once already, and the man is taking me to Italy.
“Mandolin, mostly. But I’ve taught myself a little of everything — guitar, banjo, lute, ukulele…” I pause, willing myself to open up. “And I sing.”
He smiles over at me. “Are you any good?” I blush so deeply he laughs. “Okay, maybe you can just show me sometime and I’ll be the judge.”
“You’re a devious bastard,” I tease.
He waggles an eyebrow as he pulls into the airport parking structure.