Gavino
“Sit,” I order and jab a knife toward the table. “White or red?”
“Uh,” Jeanie says and lowers herself into her seat at my kitchen table. She fiddles with the cloth napkin and the silverware and shrugs. “White.”
“Good choice. We’re having a seafood pasta dish. No, I didn’t cook it, and no, I don’t fucking cook.” I glare at her, daring her to question me. She blinks and shrugs.
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Good.” I disappear back into the kitchen, finish slicing the bread, cover it in olive oil and freshly grated cheese, and put it in the oven. This isn’t cooking. This is throwing shit on other shit and tossing it into some heat. That’s not cooking. I set a timer for ten minutes then pour the wine.
Jeanie seems overwhelmed. She’s wearing jean shorts and a tank top. Clearly, she didn’t think I was serious when I said I was feeding her a good meal. I sit down across from her and sip my wine as she watches warily, brushing her hair back and to the side, nervously chewing on her lip.
She hasn’t been back in my house since that first night and it feels strange for her to be here. My home is my sanctuary—it’s quiet, empty, a place to think without distractions.
Jeanie the ultimate distraction.
“I hear you had a nice evening with my sister and my in-laws yesterday,” I say carefully. That’s not the reason she’s here, but I want to get it out in the open first thing.
“They ambushed me,” she says, sounding slightly panicked. “They were nice though, I swear.”
I grunt and nod. “I know.”
“How?”
“I have spies in the big house,” I say, waving a hand. “I have them keeping an eye on you.”
Her cheeks turn red. “Are you serious? You’re spying on me?”
“For your own protection.”
“You’re insane. You can’t spy on me for my protection, that’s just—”
“Just what?” I ask, leaning forward, eyebrows raised. “Crazy? Overbearing? Intense?”
“All of the above.”
“Get used to it then, princess.” I lean back again and sip my wine. “Truth is though, I don’t want you getting too comfortable up in the villa. This deal with Malcolm is speeding toward a close and once that happens, your chances at doing something will diminish into nothing. If you’re going to hurt him, you’d better get on it soon.”
She nods to herself and swirls her drink. I watch her in silence, letting that sink in. We don’t have forever here, and our agreement isn’t designed to go on indefinitely. She’s my personal assistant or secretary or whatever right now—but she won’t be in the foreseeable future, which means I don’t need her and she doesn’t need me.
I keep telling myself that anyway.
This is a marriage of convenience. A business arrangement and nothing more. We both benefit from this, and once our initial agreement comes to an end, I can walk away and never think about her again.
I refuse to let thoughts of having her in my lap as my hand cupped her warm, slick pussy keep infesting my brain. We need to move forward, and I need to figure out how I can get the taste of her lips out of my damn dreams.
“I’ve been thinking about what we’re going to do about Malcolm,” she says quietly, and as she talks, the timer in the kitchen goes off. I grunt in annoyance and she grimaces.
“Bread,” I say, “keep going. What did you decide?”
“It’s just that—”
I get up and head into the kitchen and pull the bread out, dump it into a bowl, and grab the wine bottle to refill out glasses.
“It’s only that—”
I put the bowl down, pour some wine for us both, and start to get the main course ready. It’s finished, cooked by the chef back at the main house, and all I had to do was heat it up.