The Woman at the Docks (Grassi Framily)

And then there he was.

In nothing but low-slung basketball shorts, leaving his entire midsection on display, sweat slick over the hard lines of abdominal muscles. And, as I stared, a single bead of sweat slipped down between his pecs, down his abs, tracing the little happy trail as it disappeared under the waistband of his pants.

God.

God.

A little whimper worked its way up my throat and out, barely audible to my own ears, but Luca's eyes seemed to blaze at the sound of it somehow.

His gaze slid over my red with white polka dot pajama set, then to my hand, then the table, taking in the bottle I'd shamelessly been pilfering from.

"Matteo?" he asked, still not advancing into the room.

"He stole it from your restaurant," I told him.

To that, I got a snort with a head shake. "Of course he did," he said. "Alright. I have to shower," he said, voice a little rough before rushing away.

Did I watch his back— and ass—as he walked away? Yes, yes I did. Adding further insult to injury, my poor body cried in desperation as I poured myself a third drink, taking it to my room.

It didn't end up doing any good for the need swirling through my system, but it did eventually knock me the hell out.

Which was just as good.

Except my dreams were plagued with images and sounds of hands sinking into soft flesh, of murmured Italian words in my ear, leaving me writhing in bed until I woke up in tangled sheets, my body overheated despite the air conditioning blasting from the vents.

I lay there disoriented for a long couple of minutes, squinting at the brightness of the room before it clicked that it was later than usual for me to be rising.

Folding up, I searched for my phone, finding it knocked on the ground under the bed.

The time on it said ten minutes after eleven in the morning.

Eleven.

I wasn't sure I had slept past ten since I was a child.

I slid my phone unlocked, squinting at my screen when a text screen popped up.

I didn't remember texting anyone recently.

Yet there it was.

A chat bubble staring me right in the face.

With words I had no memory of texting, likely doing so more than a little drunk and very, very tired, a combination that made complete delirium entirely possible.

You can't just kiss people like that.

"No," I hissed, scrolling the text up, praying it was just something I'd texted to an ex or something.

But no.

Because there was the picture of my sister that Luca had texted to himself from my phone.

"Oh, God," I groaned, pressing my phone to my chest, eyes closing, humiliation blanketing my system. It chased away the desire, sure, but it was no more comfortable, no more tolerable.

It took longer than I care to admit to find the strength to scroll the screen back down to see if there had been a response from Luca.

Nothing.