I part my lips, and he slides a bite in. The second the flavors hit my tongue—citrus, creamy ricotta, the perfect crunch of the shell—I moan, eyes fluttering closed against my better judgment.
When I open them again, he’s closer. Too close. His head dips and I barely register the brush of his mouth before he licks powdered sugar off my bottom lip.
“Mmm,” he hums. “Delicious.”
“Declan, bet—” I stammer, catching myself. “I mean, you better stop.”
Because I have a bet to win.
Because I can’t let myself fall for the one person who could unravel everything I’ve worked for.
And because you’re not my husband.
You’re just the mistake I’m trying not to repeat.
Even if my body keeps forgetting that.
There’s an elegant round table in the corner of the kitchen with two bamboo chairs. But it’s what’sonthe table that stops me cold.
“Are those my bras and panties? Folded?”
Declan glances at the stack, then back at me. “I washed them.”
“You washed my panties. And bras.” My voice comes out strangled.
Since I’d be splitting time between two places, I’d ordered an extra set of unmentionables to be delivered here. I assumed his staff would drop them in my room. Wrong.
“You’re supposed to wash new underwear before wearing it,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“Iknowthat, dick face. What I don’t understand is whyyoutook it upon yourself to do it for me!”
“You’re welcome.”
I exhale slowly, collecting myself before I commit homicide against the beautiful man that is my husband.
“We need rules. Boundaries, Declan,” I stammer, the words scraping their way out of my throat. It’s the only defense I have left. If I say it out loud, maybe my brain will finally catch up and remember he’s the hazard I keep forgetting to run from.
His eyes narrow, and I hate how even that looks good on him. “What kind of boundaries? For what?”
I sidestep quickly, putting the kitchen island between us like it’s a barricade that could actually hold.
There’s a half-drunk glass of wine on the counter—I know it’s his, but I grab it anyway and finish it in one long pull. Desperate for something to still me.
He tilts his head, that maddeningly calm expression back on his face, and moves toward me again. It’s like the concept of space between us is optional for him. And he always chooses option-closer.
“You mean boundaries like what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine?” he says, gesturing at his now empty glass. That Italian accent curling around every word like a dare.
“No,” I snap, sharper this time. But who am I kidding? EvenIcan hear the tremor beneath my voice. “I mean real boundaries, Declan. No sex. No flirting or innuendos. No crossing lines we can’t uncross.”
“If that’s what you prefer,” he says with a grin.“I’d prefer not to have a tsunami of sex flood my panties when you’re near.”
I keep that to myself, though I’m certain he can already feel it in the air. The way he moves tells me he’s reading me. Sensing me.
“And when the cameras do show up? For the check-ins?” He asks, closing the gap even more. “You want us to act like strangers then?”
I blink. “We can…perform.”
“So, kissing?”