Chapter Eleven
Alessandra.
When I wake up, I’m cuddled against Quinn’s sleeping form. We’re entwined on the couch, his head tucked into the crook of my neck and his arms wrapped around my torso. I lift my head and find it’s still dark outside. We must have fallen asleep, talking about everything from me being a nanny to him being co-owner of an escort service and all of the insanity that ensues in both of our day-to-day jobs.
A blush warms my cheeks. How long did I talk? I was so comfortable. . .. It must have been over an hour before we both dozed off from the wine.
With a cringe, I recall telling Quinn about the time Ben threw up on me at the park, otherwise known as the most humiliating moment of Erica’s life. I think I even reenacted the completely bereft expression on her face when I approached her at the monkey bars, covered in baby puke, and told her in front of her new friends that we were going home. Quinn’s chuckles fueled me as I described the melodrama of her tears and vows to never, and I mean NEVER, speak to me again. Since when is that a good post-sex story?
My embarrassment subsides as I look at his sleeping face. He liked the story. He likes me. He may more than like me.
How much do I like him?
Quinn’s eyes flutter open, as if I had asked the question aloud.
“What time is it?” he asks. His voice is rough in that sexy, just-woken-up way. Oh God, do I like that voice.
“It's late, I don't know,” I whisper. More so, I don’t care. Time isn’t on my mind when there are these long eyelashes to count and those cheekbones to powder with kisses.
“I do have a bed,” he whispers back.
“Oh.” I smile. “I remember that bed. You should show it to me again."
He smiles for the briefest of moments before burying his face in my neck and planting the warmest, sweetest kiss there. I squeeze him hard, bursting with feeling. With matching sighs, we lift our lazy bodies from the couch and shuffle back toward his room, my arm wrapped around his waist, his around my shoulder. He plants a kiss on my hair as our bare feet pad across the cold floors.
Under his plush covers, my feet instantly find warmth. He curls his body around mine, spooning me without the usual awkwardness of finding a comfortable position with another body in bed. Again, I take a moment to marvel about how well we fit together. I push my ass flirtatiously against his groin. Why not?
“Can I help you?” he murmurs.
“Maybe we can help each other.,” I murmur back in my sexiest, honey-sweet voice.
Quinn growls into my ear and nips at my earlobe. I giggle uncontrollably, and we’re at it again.
This time, the sex is slow and warm. His one free hand cups my breast, massaging my nipple before running his fingers up and down my belly. The other hand I refuse to let go of, planting wet, tender kisses on each knuckle. Cocooned so tightly together, with his torso pressed against my back, it’s easy to find a lazy, comfortable pace. Our climax is a slow, heavy burn, rocking us back and forth in indescribable bliss.
“Grazie,” he says softly against the back of my sweat-soaked neck, half-asleep from the power of his orgasm. I hum contentedly in response, sated and ready for a restful sleep.
• • •
A hand stroking my hair wakes me the following morning. Quinn, fully dressed, crouches in front of me next to the bed, brushing what I can only assume is a rat’s nest back from my face.
“Buongiorno, stella marina,” he says, his eyes glimmering with amusement.
Starfish?
Then I realize the position I’m in. I’m sprawled across the bed, my hair wild and my legs twisted in the satin sheets. Realizing I’m not exactly at my most elegant, I groan.
“It’s early,” he says kindly.
I moan into the pillow. “Young people need more sleep.”
“Are you calling me old?” He gasps quietly in mock offense. “So rude, when I’ve brought you…”
His hand roams over to the bedside table to reach for something, and my nose catches up to my grumbling stomach. I nearly squeal at the sight of freshly brewed coffee in a ceramic mug.
“You can’t be serious.” I’m almost in tears. It tastes so good. Like if Quinn Kingsley were a flavor, this would be it. My eyelids flutter in ecstasy.
“I’d like to take you out to breakfast once you’re done making love to that cup.” He chuckles.
“I’ve only got the dress I wore last night, though. Hello, walk of shame.” Am I pouting? I may be, but missing out on a chance at breakfast with him is a somber thought.
“As much as I would love to see you in that dress again, I did think of that,” he says with a smile. “I asked my assistant to pick up some necessities. It’s all in the bathroom. Take your time. But not too long.”
He plants a quick kiss on my still-pouting lips as I process all that he just said. Did he really think of everything? Is that possible?
I find my answer in his pristine master bath. On the marble countertop, I peruse through a pair of leggings, a pair of jeans, a simple tee shirt, a sweater, several styles of underwear, and even a bra in my size. I have options to choose from, all in a lovely array of colors that look as though they belong in my own closet.
I pop open the glass shower door and peek inside. Shampoos, shower gels, conditioner, and—is that a loofah?
A man who knows the luxury of a loofah is not to be replaced. This time, my inner voice sounds a lot like Deanna.
As the hot steam envelops me in the shower, I find my mind wandering.
Will I ever find anyone as incredible as Quinn again? In a foreign country, no less? The questions sneak up on me like an unwelcome poke in the back.
I try to shake off the nagging feeling that I already know the answers, and they aren’t the answers that I want in this moment. I still have my whole life ahead of me. I forcibly draw my thoughts to my travel plans—my go-to thought bubble in moments of uncertainty. I scrub these thoughts into my skin, willing myself to focus on the plan. I will see places I’ve only read of, eat foods I’ve only attempted to recreate, and explore a variety of romantic endeavors with suitors I’ve only dreamed of.
I stop scrubbing so ferociously and stand perfectly still under the water, letting the liquid heat pour down on me. A final question lingers, a lingering of doubt at my periphery.
How many of those make-believe suitors will ever live up to Quinn?
• • •
In the café, I order another cup of coffee and a simple plate of pancakes with syrup. Quinn scoffs, ordering an even larger stack of pancakes with chocolate syrup and strawberries on top. I can’t help but tease him.
“Quinn…” I sigh with a mock roll of my eyes. “That was my order when I was about eight years old.” I give him my best nanny is judging you look.
“I don’t ignore the little luxuries.” He snaps the menu closed with a flourish, and the waiter scoops it up and hurries off with our orders. “Besides, it’s what my mother always made. The premixed version with slightly expired chocolate chips, of course, but still. . .it holds memories.”
When his eyes crinkle with a softness reserved for his family, I wish, I want that softness, too, before I can censor my thoughts.
“Tell me about an average morning for the Kingsley family.” Remembering the hard times he and his brothers endured protecting their mother, I quickly clarify. “The best kind.”
Quinn raises his eyebrows at the request but doesn’t object, launching into a story about the time he and his brothers tried to surprise their mother after a particularly difficult night. The result was a mess of their kitchen, a burned batch of chocolate chip cookies, and their poor mother waking to the sound of the smoke alarm. His smile broadens as he describes how angry she was at them for using the oven without her, but how she still ate every bite of their burned surprise.
“I love when you talk about your family,” I say at the end of the story, then immediately shove a huge forkful of pancake in my mouth.
He smiles at my enthusiasm, chewing thoughtfully on his first bite. “I just wish I knew more about my mother’s family. She cut all ties with them after she got pregnant, and then when our father left her, the bridges were already burned. I was too young to have the foresight to ask her about any other family members. And then she was gone.”
I sense the soreness of the topic as he sets his fork down for a moment, briefly having lost his appetite. I reach across the table and grasp his hand firmly.
“You know,” I say tentatively, “I had a friend in high school who was adopted. When she turned sixteen, she asked her adoptive parents for one gift—to hire a private investigator to find her birth mother. Awkward family drama aside, it actually worked out well. The PI found her. She posts pictures of them seeing shows together in the city all the time. Crazy, right?” I realize I’m rambling because I’m not sure where this story is going.
“Are you recommending I hire a private investigator?”
“If you’re that curious, you could, yeah,” I say, hopeful. “I know it sounds crazy, but it might give you and your brothers some necessary clarity.”
Quinn does that thing then, when he squints his eyes and stares at me like I’m an Italian word he’s trying to remember but can’t quite place.
“I’ve always had this weight,” he admits, and I can tell the words he uses are carefully chosen. “I never considered the possibility of alleviating it. I just thought it was an unanswered question I’d have to live with. Hell,” he laughs, “I hire private investigators to track down our runaway clients on almost a weekly basis.”
“Maybe it’s time to wed professional with personal?” I ask, running my fingers across his knuckles.
“We have gotten pretty good at that, haven’t we?” he says with a wink.
I blush, remembering for the first time in days that I’m still his tutor. Professional and personal are lines we’ve been dancing between since the very beginning. “Sì, we certainly have.”
Giving him my most innocent smile, I snatch up one of his chocolate-covered strawberries and pop it into my mouth. The flavor is almost as sweet as the word we was on my tongue. How incredible is it that such a word can mean so much?
How incredible, and how scary.