“You’re right. So why do you hate cooking?” she asks, redirecting the conversation. “You’re Italian. Aren’t all Italians supposed to be great cooks? Or is that a cliché?”
I laugh. “I grew up with five older sisters, Peyton. I couldn’t get near the kitchen. Not that I wanted to. I was busy with sports anyway.”
She nods, and a small, little-girl-lost smile touches her mouth. “That must have been so nice, Roman. I love my brother, dearly, but I always kind of wanted a sister, too. There was this one place...” Her voice falls off and a deep sadness invades her eyes. My gut twists, and it’s all I can do not to pull her into my arms. She shakes herself out of her reverie and says, “Anyway, all those sisters. It must have been awesome.”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask as she inches toward the bigger bedroom, stopping outside the door. “I had to set my alarm for three in the morning just to get some bathroom time.”
She laughs. A sweet melodic sound that strokes my dick. “That does sound horrible,” she says.
“Don’t even get me started on the makeup and hair products. Everywhere, Peyton. Everywhere. In my cereal, on my soap, on my clothes. Do you have any idea how many girls accused me of cheating on them?”
Her brow arches playfully. “A lot, huh?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say a lot.” I grin. “A few, maybe.”
She lifts herself up to her full height and squares her shoulders. “Well, you’ll be happy to know, I’m not high-maintenance. I promise no hair on your soap, in your cereal or on your clothes.”
What about in my bed?
Nope. Nope. Don’t go there.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and run a long strand of her silky soft hair through my fingers. My knuckles brush her cheek, and her chest rises with her fast intake of breath. “It’s okay, I’ve gotten used to it over the years.” I laugh as I think about that. “I think you’d really like my sisters.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Yeah, you’re kind of annoying like they are.” Her mouth drops open and she whacks my chest. I snatch her hand before she can pull it back. “Kidding,” I say, and brush my thumb over her wrist.
She shakes her head. “I do talk a lot sometimes, I know,” she says.
“I don’t hate it, Peyton.” My gaze drops to her mouth. Damn, so sweet and succulent, it’s all I can do not to dip my head for another taste while I think about sinking myself inside her. Kissing her in the limo was a bad idea. I have no idea what came over me. Maybe I should get checked for a brain tumor. I swore to God, I was never, ever going to put my mouth on her again. Yeah, I can blame it on her incessant chatter, but I think it had more to do with watching her sleep, hearing her soft breathing sounds and even softer murmurs. The type of noises I’d imagine she’d make between the sheets—while I was on top of her. “Not like you hated that kiss,” I taunt.
Her lips pucker, like she’d just eaten something sour. “Yeah, I really hated that.”
“Do you hate a lot of things?” I tease. “Besides me, I mean?”
“No, I reserve most of it for you,” she jokes in return, a sly little grin on her face.
“I figured.” I let my hand fall. “I guess I should let you get to sleep.” I’m about to leave when her hand on my arm stops me.
“Roman.”
I swallow as the softness in her voice seeps through me and zaps my balls. “Yeah.”
“Your sisters.” She leans against the wall, like she’s not in a hurry to end our banter. “They’re all older?”
I pause, and take in her big green eyes. She knows they are. I told her they were. Just a minute ago, and on the plane when we were going over the logistics of our fake marriage. She blinks up at me, and my gut tightens as realization dawns. She wants to talk, wants to hear more about my big family because she never had one of her own.
“Yeah, they’re all older,” I say quietly. She nods and smiles. “Do you...want a family?” I ask, even though Cason told me his sister was anti-marriage.
Her soft smile falls and she looks at me like I must be an idiot. It’s one of the nicer looks she’s given me tonight. “Hell no. I never plan on getting married, Roman.”
“Another thing we have in common,” I tell her.
“I guess so.” Her eyes narrow and she looks past my shoulders, like her thoughts are a million miles away. “I learned early on that I’m no Cinderella and Prince Charming doesn’t exist,” she says, like all life’s curveballs haven’t bothered her at all. Maybe they haven’t—and maybe I was born yesterday. One thing is for certain, she’s a fighter, a woman who goes after what she wants. That’s damn admirable if you ask me.
“Your sisters,” she says, bringing the conversation back to me.
“You’d really like them, Peyton.”
“I bet I would.”
I wince as I think about that. “Not that you’re ever going to meet them.”
The light in her eyes fades and her smile tumbles. My heart follows suit. Shit, I keep saying the wrong things tonight.
“No, of course not,” she says. “I wasn’t suggesting... I didn’t think.”
“It’s just that—”
“No. I don’t want to meet them,” she says quickly, and I study her face, not sure I believe her. “We’re just here pretending. No need for me to meet them and give them the wrong idea.”
“Peyton, if they got wind of us—”
“Yeah, right, I get it.” She waves her hand. “Anyway, it’s late. We better get some sleep.” She steps into her bedroom, effectively cutting off my explanation. “Oh, wait, my suitcase.”
“I’ll grab it,” I say, my pulse pounding against my throat as I make my way down the stairs. She might be hell-bent on remaining unattached, but if anyone needs a family it’s her. No way can I let my sisters think I’m married, though. I can’t even imagine what they’d do. Yeah, maybe I can imagine. All five of them would invade the villa and all their interfering wouldn’t be good for Peyton or her job. Christ, we’d probably end up married for real, before either of us realized it, and neither one of us wants that.
I double-check the lock on the door, grab our bags and head back upstairs. I rap quietly on her door, and when I hear the water running in the bathroom that adjoins our rooms, I open her bedroom door and set her bag inside. With sleep pulling at me, I head to the other room and stretch out my tight muscles.