Trapped by the Mafia

14. Kiss a Prince and...

Baguette is a long loaf of French bread, but also a gem, most often a diamond, cut in a long rectangular shape.

***

Matteo lowers his cocked gun. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "You're unforgettable, Bryn."

Once the gun stopes dominating the picture, I release a pent up breath and take in his gorgeous figure. Hip-hugging jeans were created for his build. A grocery bag highlights the casual French look, complete with a baguette poking out like the biggest tease in the room.

"The groceries and a gun, Scali? How quaint."

There're better things I can say to him. For example, I can ask him why the hell he went into trouble setting up this ruse when he could have fucking texted me to meet for coffee. I could, but I am only a girl standing before a boy.

A boy wearing a t-shirt made from a secret cotton blend that flows over the shoulder and chest muscles, instead of stretching out and hanging like the normal tee shirts do. His jeans are classic dark blue, the t-shirt is khaki, and this casual ensemble gives Brioni a run for their money.

"Do you actually eat this bread?" I mutter, because his muscle-to-paunch ratio makes it hard to believe he does.

He puts the grocery bag on the floor, but not the gun. A weary glance remains on me when he collects my lockpicks from the floor. "Cute."

Professional pride stirs in me. "Hey! It's nothing to sniff at. They served me well."

"Naughty girl." He sticks a key into the lock I was screwing with. "Come in. We need to talk."

The door opens into the master bedroom, with an enormous desk, a sitting nook, a wall safe, and two more doors—to the closet and an en-suite, I presume.

I don't register much more than that as I stumble in after him, reflexively pulling the door shut behind me. Even dreaming of him nightly, I forgot how preposterously good-looking he is. It would be distracting even for a more task-focused brain than mine.

Matteo stops in mid-stride, which I miss, of course. When he turns, we're seriously invading each other's personal space. His face is so close, his breath stirs run-away strands of my hair. He stares at my mouth with an expression that compels my lips to jump off my face and kiss his.

I lean in, like paper clips drawn to a magnet. "W-why the ruse? Couldn't you have texted me?"

"I said I would contact you when it was safe. It wasn't safe. It's still not safe. Hence, I haven't contacted you."

"What kind of Neanderthal logic is it?"

"Just logic, Bryn. Alas, I don't think it's your strong suit."

"But you are glad to see me?"

"Maybe logic is not my strong suit either."

Time crawls. His hand moves toward my face, slowly, as if moving through molasses. The warm palm of his hand cups my cheek as if he doesn't quite believe that I'm real, not a product of his imagination.

"I missed you, Matteo Scali."

His thumb circles gently to stop at my lips, stroke there and back, part them with the slightest pressure. "Yeah, me too. Missed you, I mean."

I gasp, not even his name, but I doubt there could be two ways to interpret this specific intake of air under these circumstances. I want him to—

Matteo's face looms closer, I tilt my head back.

His gun-holding hand hangs to one side, but the other one brackets my waist, pressing our bodies so tightly together, that I can track the progress of the mischievous part of male anatomy against my belly. What that contact does to me head to the curling toes borders on criminal.