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—agiantstep.
“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 theonlyfunctioning 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’tmiss. 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.”
The stranger shakes my hand but doesn’t offer his name. Instead, he pries. “You’re not from here, are you, Valentina?”
I bristle, defensive. Though I wasn’t born and raised here, my mother is from Palermo, and my father is from this region. I am of Sicilian origin. My mother simply chose to raise me in the United States.
“I am,” I reply, my composure more collected than it was moments ago. “My mother grew up not far from here.”
He arches a brow, unfazed by the sarcasm in my voice. “And your father?”
After gritting my teeth, I steer clear of a topic I’ll happily avoid for decades. “I apologize, but I must go. I’m late.”
He glances at my cracked phone screen, knits his dark brows, then gestures to the SUV he had me pressed up against. “Hop in. You can’t walk to the hospital from here.”
Assuming he read my destination through my cracked screen, and not because he’s a deranged stalker, I don’t seek clarification on how he knows where I’m going. I pursue more precise directions. “The app says?—”
“Your app is telling you to go through a wall. You need to goaround it.” He opens the SUV’s front passenger door and then signals for me to enter.
Warning bells ring in my head, but the memory of the truck and the taste of fear still sharp in my mouth prompt me to nod. “All right.”
As I sink into the plush leather seat, the handsome stranger jogs to the driver’s door. With an animalistic grace that matches his commanding aura, he slides in, starts the engine, and pulls into oncoming traffic without waiting for an opening.