Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I wipe the fear from my eyes with a handful of blinks before peering up at the man who saved my life. Though his body is still squashed against mine, since he stands a good foot taller than me, I encounter no issues drinking him in.
The sophisticated scent of his cologne matches the striking features of his face, and his messy dark hair is tousled in a way that suggests he runs his hands through it multiple times a day. It’s early, but his chiseled jaw already displays the start of a five o’clock shadow, and his sable eyes are intense.
When I huff, shocked someone can start their day looking this fantastic, my minty breath fans his cheek. Mistaking my sigh as a wordless request for space, he steps back, further highlighting his alluring package. He’s not just attractive. He’s also tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit. The collar of his crisp black business shirt is open. His watch looks expensive but understated, and his shoes have been polished to a mirror shine.
His commanding presence draws a crowd, but his intense gaze remains fixed on me. I won’t lie. The interest his eyes hold as he travels them over my face and body makes me blush.
He’s suited for the boardroom of a multibillion-dollar company or behind the wheel of a luxury superyacht, not rescuing a flustered woman from a traffic accident.
He probably dates women who glide through life with perfect hair and effortless grace, so someone who is perpetually late and a gluttonous breath away from a wardrobe malfunction should be an unlikely candidate for his attention.
But I get a second glance—more than once.
He eyes me with the same interest I give him, and his mutually needy stare announces my near collision with a truck isn’t to blame for my spiking pulse.
That burden rests entirely on his shoulders.
We’re from different realms, but I hide my insecurities with strong eye contact. He must find my endeavor to keep the playing field even humorous. The corners of his plump lips lift into a confident smirk as his thumb brushes the vein thudding in my wrist.
If he’s trying to stabilize my blood pressure, he needs to take a step back—a giant step.
“Stai bene?” His accent is low and unmistakably Sicilian. He’s a native, probably born here. His accent is more authentic than the one I’ve tried to imitate so the locals wouldn’t categorize me as a tourist, despite that being the status of my visa.
Nodding, I swallow hard to loosen the lusty clutch curled around my throat. “I think so,” I reply in English, hopeful it will announce I am, at best, a novice in Italian.
As he inches back, allowing enough space for my lungs to fully expand, a refreshing breeze tickles my chest. I glance down, and my eyes bulge. My blouse didn’t survive his pluck-and-rescue routine. My fitted shirt-and-skirt combo was already struggling to contain my ample curves, and my near tumble made their efforts pointless.
Almost every curve I own is on full display.
Grimacing, I tug down the hem of my skirt with one hand and clutch my blouse together with the other. I’ve always worn double digits, and most days, I’m comfortable in my own skin, but tell me a girl who wouldn’t feel awkward standing next to the World’s Sexiest Man?
The stranger scrapes a hand across his bristled jaw, hiding his smile, when I fasten the only functioning button left on my blouse. It barely conceals the fleshy globes on my panting chest, but it’s better than nothing.
Even though he appears amused, his tone showcases concern when he asks, “Are you trying to die?”
“I didn’t see—”
“You didn’t look.” I steady my sways with the SUV’s door handle when he brings back the seriousness of the situation. “You were about to walk straight under that truck.” He shakes his head and mutters something I don’t catch before he stoops down to collect my phone from the footpath. “You should pay more attention. Carlisle traffic doesn’t stop for anyone.”
“I’m lost,” I confess. “My car wouldn’t start, so I took the bus, three buses actually, because I have an important meeting I can’t miss. The app must have gotten its town plans from the same place my ex got directions to my cl—” I stop when I realize how absurd I sound. He is the epitome of wealth and sophistication, and I’m rambling like a homeless person at Venice Beach. “Thank you. You saved my life.”
His response is barely audible. “My mother always said variety is the spice of life.”
His change in pitch piques my curiosity. The shrill of an alarm, however, brings to mind the reason for my distraction. I don’t have time to dawdle—regretfully.
I extend my hand as if a handshake is sufficient payment for saving a life. “Valentina Raimondi.”