Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 163540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 818(@200wpm)___ 654(@250wpm)___ 545(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 818(@200wpm)___ 654(@250wpm)___ 545(@300wpm)
It looks like the Vatican or some shit. “You live here?” I squeak.
He smiles at my reaction and walks in. He carelessly chucks his keys onto the counter, as if it’s just a normal side table and not some two-thousand-year-old artefact.
“Yes.” He puts his hands onto his hips as he looks around, unimpressed.
“Jeez.” I feel the blood drain from my face.
“I don’t notice it. I’ve grown up in homes like this, so it has no…” He pauses for a moment. “It’s my normal. It’s just a house. I would prefer modern furnishings, but this is a family property, so I make do.”
“Make do?” I scoff. “Enrico, this is not making do. This is—”
“What?”
I stop myself before I say something insulting. Spoilt brat comes to mind. “Your grandfather owns this?”
He takes my hand and leads me through the apartment. “Yes.”
“What does he do?”
“He owns multiple businesses—my father, too.”
“Oh.” I frown as I look around.
There’s a huge living area that looks like something out of a movie. It’s filled with deep red velvet couches, and there are antiques everywhere. The artwork alone is incredible. It’s all very stuffy. We pass through a formal dining room, and I count the chairs at the huge table. Twenty! There are twenty fucking chairs at the table.
“What kind of businesses?” I ask. Does he own Amazon or some shit?
“He manufactures sports cars. He owns a football team. He owns a lot of properties. He has many different avenues of income.”
The kitchen is made of black marble with a huge island counter in the middle. We walk down the hall and into another living room. It’s a little less formal but still out of this world. We pass a gymnasium, five bedrooms, and I’ve lost count of all the bathrooms.
I feel ill.
Thank God he isn’t coming to my shitty one-bedroom apartment in Sydney. If only he knew what a pauper he was sleeping with, he’d probably run for the hills. It took me a year just to save for this trip. I really should be cleaning his fucking bathroom.
“And this is my bedroom.” He opens a door at the end of the hall, and I smile in relief.
This is more like it.
It’s modern in here. There’s a large king-sized bed covered with white linen. Bright abstract artwork sits on the walls, and there’s an airy sitting room to the right with a brown leather couch and television. Huge palms in terracotta pots are dotted throughout the space. An all-white bathroom is to the left, which has a huge stone bath and a double shower inside it. The place is homey, and so much more like what I expected from him.
“I live mostly in here,” he says.
“You don’t like the rest of the apartment?”
“I do. I wouldn’t have it like that if it were mine, but I can’t change it. This building and the furnishings have been in our family for centuries.”
“How long have you lived here alone?” I ask as I walk around his room looking at things.
“Ten years.” He takes me into his arms. “Where do you want to go today?”
“Anywhere with you.”
The wind in my face makes me smile. Rico’s hand is protectively on my thigh as he drives. I kiss his shoulder, and I’m filled with happiness.
I’ve had the best day ever.
We’ve been driving around on his motorcycle. We went out for lunch and had a lazy afternoon sightseeing around Rome.
He is the tour guide of all tour guides. We’ve laughed and talked, and I think he may just be the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.
He’s gorgeous, that goes without saying, but there’s more to him than meets the eye. Sure, he’s an Italian stallion, and yes, he has a fuckable package, but I actually like talking to him. He’s interesting, intelligent, funny, and sexy as all hell. I imagine every woman he meets falls madly in love with him.
I can see why.
Not that I’ll ever tell him that. He has enough confidence for all of Rome. I don’t need to add to his ego.
But even I have to admit, every minute with this man is a gift.
A twinge of regret kicks in. Why, oh why does he have to live in fucking Italy?
I just have to make the most of it.
The memory of Rici Ferrara will be my ultimate souvenir.
He’s someone I’ll always remember.
The candlelight flickers across our faces, and I smile at the man sitting opposite me. Ironically, we are in an Italian restaurant having dinner. We spent the early evening in bed. Determined to make every second of our weekend count, he dragged me out to dinner. I was happy being naked in bed. Toast would have been fine for dinner if it were up to me.
“Tell me again what you do for work? I forget, I was blinded by your beauty the other night,” he says. “I know you said design, but for what?”