Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
When we left, I repeated my duty of scanning the street before leaving the building. But when I held open the door to the back seat, Leila paused. “Can’t I sit up front?”
I shook my head. “I’m the driver. You’re the passenger. Get in.”
She nodded at the front seat in front of us. “Isn’t that called the passenger seat?”
Oops. She had me there.
“Please, you’re not just the driver. You’re almost my brother-in-law. Shouldn’t family be able to sit next to each other?”
“Fine,” I said shortly. If it would get her into the safety of the car, then that was all that mattered. She shot me a smile as she slipped past me to the front seat.
I was a little irritated as I made my way through the beginning of rush hour traffic. I hadn’t planned on spending the whole day on this. As I’d told Massimo, I wasn’t a babysitter. There was work to be done. But it was hard to stay irritated when Leila was so clearly enjoying the views of her new city. Her head swung around like it was on a swivel… but then more and more, her gaze seemed to settle on me.
At first I thought the glances she kept throwing my way meant she was checking me out. Which was flattering, but rather pointless since she was Massimo’s fiancée. But eventually, I realized that she was watching the way my hands moved on the wheel and on the stick shift. Usually when women stared at me, it was at my biceps, chest, or sometimes even my ass. But Leila was definitely watching my hands.
It took me another mile or so to figure it out. Why she was watching me shift gears. Why she was paying attention when I braked. And why she followed every turn of the steering wheel.
My sheltered little sister-in-law, I suspected, was dying to learn how to drive.
7
LEILA
I moaned as I massaged the vanilla-scented shampoo into my hair. It was a week after I’d arrived at the Moretti mansion, and it was my first time enjoying a shower. Not my first shower, of course, but my first time enjoying it.
Being engaged to a near stranger was bad enough, but sharing a bathroom with one was horrible. Massimo was usually awake in the morning by the time I woke up, but I’d pretend to still be asleep until he was done using the bathroom and getting dressed. That meant I could avoid any awkward conversations with him—not that we’d ever had any non-awkward ones. It also meant I could sometimes—depending on where he was standing his room—watch him get dressed.
Hey, he was the one who’d insisted that I not close the door between our rooms.
Besides, watching Massimo was preferable to interacting with him. When he spoke, he was gruff and distant. But when he emerged from a steamy hot bathroom wearing only a towel… well, let’s just say I couldn’t help but take notice. But I’d never actually seen more than his bare skin from the waist up. That was impressive enough, but he always seemed to step out of my view when it was time for him to lose the towel.
Which sometimes felt disappointing, and other times it felt safer that way. It wasn’t like I knew what to do with a man besides admire him from afar anyway. Sometimes, when watching him, I got the same throbbing feeling I’d had when Carmine had seen me in that slinky wedding dress. But I couldn’t imagine acting on it.
After he’d leave, I’d hurriedly get dressed, since he demanded my presence at breakfast. Then in the evening, he often worked late. I usually ate dinner on my own, which was fine with me. Jana was always happy to whip something up. But I didn’t like showering in the evening either, because I never knew when Massimo might appear.
So that was why I was enjoying a long, luxurious shower at 11 a.m. Not a totally normal thing to do, but it sure felt good. I ran my fingers along my scalp and then let them slide to my shoulders. My muscles felt tense under my touch, but the hot water was doing wonders.
Almost reluctantly, I finally rinsed and turned the water off. Stefano and I had developed a habit of eating lunch together, and I didn’t want to miss that. It was my favorite part of the day.
I put on a casual, scooped-neck shirt, and found a skirt to go with it. All of my trunks and suitcases had been moved to my tiny room, and I’d discovered that my mother had mostly packed skirts and dresses. I’d only found one pair of slacks. I’d also found a lot of stuff that wasn’t clothes at all. Sheets, tablecloths, blankets, and even a pillow. It wasn’t because my mom thought the Moretti mansion wouldn’t have bedding—it had been part of my parents’ plan to make it seem like our family had plenty. And while it was true we’d never gone hungry, in the past few years, it had been apparent that we didn’t have the kind of money we’d had when I was a child.