Page 56 of The Hitman

Giulio made the pesto, though, and he’s Italian, so I guess that counts. And it’s great, by the way. I could eat all of the leftovers, but I don’t want Giulio to think I’m greedy.

“I'm stuffed,” I tell him.

He nods and then scoops another serving of pasta onto my plate. “It won’t taste the same tomorrow.”

“If you say so,” I say around the bite of pasta I’ve already shoved into my mouth.

He shakes his head and scoops the rest of the pasta onto his plate. He refills our wine glasses and sits back in his seat across the humungous dining room table from me.

He watches me eat for a few seconds, which is enough time to scarf down half of what he’s given me.

I eye his plate and the untouched seconds. “Are you going to eat that?” I ask with full cheeks. I have manners. My mother drilled good table etiquette into Zoe, Shae, and I, but my fork is involuntarily moving across the table toward his plate. He blocks it with his own.

“Yes.”

I frown and move my fork back to my plate. I scoop up another forkful of pasta and shove it into my mouth.

Giulio laughs, but he doesn’t eat. Rude.

“Who taught you how to make pesto?”

“My mother, obviously.”

“Did she teach you how to make anything else?” I ask, popping an olive from the antipasti into my mouth.

“You know you can buy an Italian cuisine cookbook at any bookstore, right? Or you can order one online. They are not rare,” he says gracefully, eating a forkful of pasta. Finally.

“It’s not the same,” I tell him, hoping he ignores the whine in my voice.

“It’s close enough.”

I roll my eyes. “We have to eat dinner tomorrow night,” I remind him.

“You can cook me something American.”

“I boiled the water for this pasta,” I tell him. “You’ve seen the extent of my cooking capabilities.”

He chokes on the food in his mouth and washes it down with another sip of wine. He sits back in his chair and wipes at his wet eyes, still laughing at me.

I would be annoyed, but I’m busy eating.

“I know you’re just saying that so you can steal more of my mother’s recipes.”

I smile sheepishly at him and take a sip of wine before I answer. “I never said I didn’t lie. It’s actually kind of a job requirement for me.”

“What exactly is your job?” he asks, squinting at me.

“I work in PR. Public relations,” I clarify.

“Yes, I know what PR stands for. You might say that I work in PR as well.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Si. It’s my job to…handle anything that might negatively impact my organization.”

I blink at him, waiting for more or a better explanation. It doesn’t come. “I really like that moment of hesitation, the specific word choice, and the way you almost looked legitimate as you said it. You might not lie, but you certainly have a loose relationship with the truth. If you were my client, though, I’d tell you to lose the shrug. It’s a tell.”

He shrugs again. It’s a sexy as fuck tell. “I’ll remember that.”