She lets out a laugh and sets down her fork. “Not at all,” she says. “It was actually a huge shock when I learned my aunt left me Latterature.”

  “Yeah?” I watch her as she talks, checking out the loose curls that are taking shape as her hair dries.

  “Yeah,” she echoes. “My family wasn’t really close to Aunt Ann. Not as close as my mother and I would’ve liked. I was really shocked she left the place to me. I wasn’t sure I even wanted it, but I knew I had to come here and check it out.”

  Instead of looking away, I watch, a curious heat rising under my skin as I let myself appreciate this woman.

  For the first time, she maintains eye contact. “Can I speak freely?” she finally asks.

  “That’s the only fucking way to do it,” I assure her.

  “My dad was a drunk,” she says simply. “And I know I should be more considerate. He had a disease. An addiction. Alcoholism is no joke, and it’s not his fault that he had a problem. But it’s hard to separate the man from the booze when the two have such a close relationship.”

  Hearing that her dad had issues with alcohol makes me sit up a little straighter in my chair, but I don’t interrupt.

  “My dad never cooked a meal in his life.” She chews another bite of pasta and shakes her head thoughtfully. “He sure knew how to scream at me or my mother to bring him dinner, though.” She twirls the curly end of a piece of hair between her fingers and looks at me. “My family life was completely opposite of yours. Dad drank and yelled. Mom hid and enabled. And I just tried to stay out of the way.”

  “In your own family?” I set my glass back on the table, making a louder thud against the wood than I intend. “That sucks,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know what else to say.

  She shrugs and says almost exactly what I’m thinking. “Everyone has problems,” she says. “Well, I used to believe that until I met your family. They might just be as close to perfect as I’ve met.”

  I snort at that. “We’re not perfect.”

  “Hmmm?” She’s got a twinkle in her clear green eyes. “I don’t believe you. Sweet, if a little too involved, mother. A dad who cooks and seems doting. Three gorgeous brothers with good jobs and lives, and a sister who, quite honestly, I’m sure most women wish they could be.”

  When she puts it like that, yeah. We’re blessed. I know this. But that doesn’t mean we’re anywhere near perfect.

  “I wonder about that sometimes,” I say, realizing a minute too late that she called me and my brothers gorgeous, so I backtrack. “And for the record, I’m the best-looking of the Bianchis. Benito ain’t half bad, but Vito…” I shake my head. “Gorgeous he is not.”

  She laughs. “I don’t know,” she says, a teasing, playful note in her voice. I like the way the lightness in her tone sounds. “Firefighters are the stuff of romance novels. I would know, I’m a bookseller.”

  That makes me snort. “Please do not put the image in my head of Vito on the cover of some book.”

  “Any one of you could be on the cover—not just him,” she says, her face flushing. “Let me do the dishes. You’ve done enough and have been put out too much already.”

  I hold my hands up in surrender and let her clear my plate. I have a dishwasher, but she takes the towel from around her shoulders and hangs it over the end of the counter to dry.

  I can tell she’s not wearing a bra under her sleep shirt, and my cock immediately goes to half-mast in my jeans.

  Under all those clothes, Chloe has a body. Her nipples are hard, the tips pressing against the soft fabric and distracting me from the fullness of her breasts.

  Thank God she turns away to rinse the dishes because I’m twitching like a kid who can’t resist popping a sheet of bubble wrap. Those tight peaks are all I can think about touching.

  I roughly shove my chair back in and try to think about anything else except her nipples. I start talking too, words spilling out of my mouth. “So, you said you weren’t sure you wanted Latterature? What are you thinking? You’re going to look the place over, fix it up a bit, and sell?”

  She shrugs and glances back over her shoulder at me. “I hadn’t made any plans…at least not before tonight.”

  At the mention of what happened tonight, my belly tightens with a different kind of tension. “And now?” I press.

  I shouldn’t care what her plans are, but as she stands at my sink in her bare feet, it’s impossible not to be curious.

  She dries the dishes and turns back toward me. The ends of her hair are hanging over her chest, blocking my view of her more arousing parts.

  She smiles, but the gesture doesn’t reach her eyes. “I guess I was starting to feel like I could make a life here. Something different from what I had back home. Someplace I might finally belong.” A shadow passes over her face, but before I can say anything, she squares her shoulders and puts on a brave smile. “Guess I’m sleeping on the couch?”

  “You can take my bed.”

  She shakes her head. “No. No. I’m not putting you out of your bed. I probably won’t sleep much anyway. I’d rather take the couch. Please don’t argue with me about this, Franco.”

  I nod. “I’ll grab some clean pillows and blankets.” I take the stairs two at a time to burn off some of the electric energy buzzing through my limbs and rummage through my hall closet.

  When I’m halfway down the stairs, I see her peering nervously at the sliding glass patio door that leads into the backyard. She moves the curtain aside and checks to make sure it’s locked.

  “Everything all right?” I ask, and even though she nods, I am not convinced. I start to set out the blankets, a sheet, and two pillows on the couch when she stops me with a hand on my arm.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “You’ve done enough. Thank you.”

  I nod and check the front door, garage door, and then the patio slider again so she knows it’s all locked up. “Sleep well,” I tell her.

  I head upstairs but turn back to see her just sitting on the couch, not setting up the bedding. Not moving. She looks up and nods at me, that same artificial bravery plastered on her face.

  “Stop,” I mutter to myself. “She wants to be alone for a little while.”

  Post-traumatic stress and my mother’s matchmaking ideas are playing tricks with my head.

  I stalk up the stairs and into the bathroom. I get ready for bed, then go into my room. But just in case, I climb into bed and leave the bedroom door open.

  I don’t know what time it is when the noise wakes me, but the telltale creak of the middle stair has me bolting upright in bed.

  “Chloe?” The upstairs is dark and the sound stops when I call her name, so I lie still and listen, my heart rate waking me up faster than I can believe.

  I heard something. I know my house, and when I hear it again, that same creak on the stairs, I’m out of bed and at my bedroom door in seconds.

  I flip on the hall light and see Chloe looking sheepish. She’s on the staircase, her pillows and blankets bundled in her arms.

  “What happened?” I blurt, concern overcoming every other emotion. “Are you okay?”

  She’s paler than she should be, all bare legs and loose hair. “I couldn’t sleep down there. I felt too exposed,” she explains. “I thought I’d just make a little bed in your guest room.”

  “On the floor?” I ask because I never bought another bed since I never had a need.

  She nods. “Would you mind? I’ll be fine.” She trudges up the stairs, and I rake a hand through my hair.

  “No, no, no,” I say. “You take my bed. I’ve crashed on that couch more times than I can count.” I scratch my bare chest and motion toward my room. “Come on. We’ll trade.”

  She looks down at her bare toes, struggling to hold all the pillows and blankets in her arms. “Franco,” she says quietly. “Can I stay on the floor in your room? I can’t stop seeing him. I can’t stop seeing the knif—”

  I don’t let her finish the word. I take the pillows and blankets from her arms and motion toward my room with my head. She moves past me without looking me in the eye.

  I drop the pillows and blankets on the floor, and she leans over like she’s about to join them.

  “No,” I say, shoving aside the pile of blankets with my foot. “Get in the bed.”

  She looks at me curiously. She doesn’t argue, but she also doesn’t move.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask her as I pull back the comforter and sheet for her.

  I know what I’m about to do, and it could go very, very wrong. But I don’t care. Whatever my mom saw in Chloe that made her so desperately want to set me up with this woman, I’m seeing it too.

  She hums a yes as she slides onto the bed and slips her toes and then her legs under my blankets. I close the bedroom door, then climb into my side of the bed.

  We’re side by side as far apart on a small surface as two people can be.

  “Come here,” I say, rolling onto my right side. I hold up the covers, and she scoots closer to me. “I won’t bite.”

  She giggles, which I take as a good sign, and then pushes closer to me. Close enough that I have to sling an arm over her because there is nowhere else for it to go.

  “Goodnight, Franco,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

  I tell myself not to. I try to stop myself. But my mouth has a mind of its damn own, and I press a kiss to her hair and nestle my nose deep in the soft, berry-scented waves. “Sweet dreams,” I breathe.

  She might trust me, but with her body tucked against mine, the curve of her plush ass fitted against my hips, the length of her hair tickling my bare chest, I sure as hell don’t trust myself.

  8

  Chloe

  I wake up cuddled in the most luxurious, comfortable, softest bed I’ve ever been in. As soon as it hits me that I am not alone in the bed, the fog clears from my mind, and my lids fly open and bug out like a cartoon character’s.

  The room is dim, the early morning sun still weak behind the blinds. I wiggle my toes, but that’s all I dare to move because behind me is a heaping furnace of a shirtless man.

  His deep breathing makes me certain he’s still sound asleep, but the large palm tucked under my shirt rests against the skin of my belly.

  I don’t know where his other arm is, but a quick inventory of my body parts confirms it. We’re not just spooning. We’re nestled like we were made to fit together.

  We are tangled up like we’ve been taking comfort in each other’s bodies for years.

  We are not just sleeping; we’re sleeping together.

  That we is me…me…and Franco Bianchi.

  The man who grumped at me the first time we met. Who glared at me across the table through the entirety of my first family dinner.

  The weight of Franco’s thigh tossed over mine makes me start to sweat. Electric heat sparks beneath my sleep shorts, and I want desperately to rub my thighs together, but I will not budge.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, but that just makes it worse. The entire bed smells like him. How did I not notice this last night? Yes, I was traumatized and terrified, but I think I could solve all my financial woes if I could just bottle up this scent and put it on the shelves in my aunt’s bookstore.

  I’d have to call the fragrance Franco, though, because a name like “Italian Working Man” would give off all the wrong vibes.

  Okay, it’s official. I’m losing my mind.

  Last night, I climbed into bed with a man I hardly know, who I thought sort of hated me. Now, I’m lying here wide awake and afraid to move because I don’t want to leave the cocoon of comfort and warmth that this man has freely given.

  The hard part, and this sobers me up and shoves me halfway out of my sleepy cocoon, is that he’s going to wake up and boot me out of his life, probably any minute now.

  Deep sigh.

  After this morning, I’ll cling to this memory for a very long time to come. I hope my vibrator is ready for the floodgates of frustration to open.

  I shift a little under the weight of his thigh and scold myself for getting whipped into a lusty frenzy from the smell of his darned sheets, when something happens to correct my thoughts on the matter entirely.

  The hard part isn’t going to be leaving his bed.

  The hard part is actually in his bed.

  Behind me.

  Pressed against my bottom in a way that makes my body do more than just tingle.

  My nipples flare to life, tightening into needy, achy peaks. I have to practically bite through my lip to stop myself from thrusting my hips back against him.

  How?

  How, how, how is this even my life?

  I realize in a panic that maybe he isn’t asleep, and all the fidgeting, snuggling, and smelling I’ve been doing have, um, woken him up.

  I mean, it’s not like he is in this situation because of me. Certainly not for me. It’s a normal thing that just happens to guys in the morning, but my brazen cuddling is no doubt sending the wrong message.

  Or is it the right message?

  I don’t know, but before I can think myself into a state of absolute distraction, the hand on my belly tightens and a voice caresses my hair. “Mornin’.”

  I freeze.

  The blood in my body slows down, and I stiffen.

  He’s awake.

  Conscious enough to say words. And his hand hasn’t moved, but something south of his waistband twitched a little.

  I’m sure that wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part. “Good…morning,” I whisper back, debating whether to play dead, but deciding against it.

  I mean, how the hell are we going to pull ourselves apart from each other?

  Better question—how long can I stay this way before I have to?

  If I have any doubts that Franco knows exactly what he’s doing, I feel his hand move from my belly to my ribs, and then finally moves to touch my shoulder.

  He pushes the hair back from my face, and I feel him lift his head a little while he smooths the length of it under his head. But he doesn’t get up.

  He just nestles his head right back where it was, nose resting against my hair. I feel the heat of his breaths against my scalp, and all the little hairs on my arms stand at attention. But not as sharply as my traitorous nipples do.

  I suck in a ragged breath of air, the strings of attraction that connect my nipples to my core tightening to a blissful ache.

  I’m almost painfully aware of his morning hardness pressing against the crack of my bottom, when suddenly he shifts his hips and moves away, putting just enough distance between us that I can no longer feel his arousal.

  Damn.

  I don’t know what I expected him to do when he woke, but moving away from me was the very thing I didn’t want.

  When he does, though, I quickly remember that he is who he is, and I’m me.

  Plain.

  Nerdy.

  That gift he is sporting in his pajama pants has nothing to do with me.

  “We sure got cozy last night. I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.”

  My body has clearly taken over my brain because before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “It’s what you promised, remember? Self-serve hugs? I wouldn’t have stayed here if the damsel-in-distress package didn’t come with spooning.”

  He’s quiet for a moment and my cheeks burn hot with mortification, but then a miracle happens. Franco rolls back over and tucks his body tighter against mine. “Is that so?” he growls against my ear.

  I press my bottom ever so slightly, so the raging erection he’s still sporting is back right where I want it. Well, not right where I want it. It’s lined up with my butt cheeks.

  My hands are itching to reach behind me and touch him, take that length in my hands and guide it where I need it most, but I stop them.

  Franco groans under his breath and hisses, but he doesn’t move away.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, then make the painful decision to end this agonizing teasing and roll over to face him before I really embarrass myself.

  I inch myself away from his hold, not because it’s what I want—because I swear on all that’s good and holy, all I want is to roll him onto his back so I can mount him until I’m screaming his name. But that’s not happening.

  Not now, not ever.

  Instead, I give myself a mental cold shower and curl onto my side facing him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer or slept better.”

  “Shit day yesterday. Glad I could help.”

  “I’m glad too,” I admit quietly. “Thank you seems like not nearly enough.”

  I’m suddenly feeling shy as we look at each other under the covers. The sun is starting to come up, and I can see every muscle in his bare shoulders.

  His hair is messy, and the stubble on his chin is thick and delicious. Franco is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that I could lie here and stare at for hours.

  “Lots to do today,” he says, shoving back the covers.

  Those words remind me that this is just a friend helping a friend. A guy whose mother would guilt him if he didn’t offer help. A courtesy.

  Thanks to the still-dark bedroom, I’m hoping Franco can’t see me watching every flex and stretch of his body as he gets out of bed.

  I try to lower my lids so I don’t look like I’m checking out his body, but then I give in and just stare. Why not?

  My fantasy is ending, and I want to soak up every last second.

  Sigh.

  He shakes out his shoulders and stretches his arms above his head, and I close my eyes to stop them from rolling as every muscle of his torso moves like a male model warming up before settling into just the right pose.

  Come on.

  The guy isn’t hot enough in clothes, so I’ve got to watch him shirtless? What next? Is he going to drop and do some crunches?

  “You want to shower first?” he asks, breaking in to my thoughts.

  I tuck the blankets up to my chin and shake my head. “No, you go ahead. I’ll catch a few more minutes of rest.”