Matilda, and you,” Leon said. “Nine people, but ten plates. Who is the extra plate for?”
“We might have a guest for dinner.” I put the salad dressing on the table.
“Like who?” He put the pan onto the stove and pulled the oven mitts off.
I opened my mouth to answer. The doorbell rang, echoing through all of our cell phones. Leon tapped his phone. His eyes sparked with indignation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I went to answer the door.
The icy assassin who killed the strike team and then stalked me in my own room was gone. Instead, Instagram Alessandro stood in the doorway, carrying a bottle of wine. He wore impeccably tailored brown pants and an indigo blue dress shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons open, just enough to give a great view of his muscular neck. His boots, leather, ankle-high, and expensive, matched the outfit. His brushed then artfully tousled hair framed his face. He’d shaved, and the masculine perfection of his features was on full display; the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the strong, clean line of his jaw, his sensual mouth . . .
My brain did that thing again, the one where I lost all ability to reason and form complete sentences.
Say something. Something smart.
Our stares connected. His eyes were still the same; calculating, lupine, and heated by amber magic from within.
“You’re late,” I told him. Yes! Brilliant. I said a thing and it made sense. It had a subject and a verb and they went together. Catalina Baylor one, Instagram Alessandro a big fat zero.
“Beauty takes time.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” I stepped aside.
He stepped through. “Permesso.”
I almost answered, Avanti, but caught myself. He didn’t need to know how much Italian I understood. Instead, I locked the door behind him, and we walked deeper into the house, through the office, through the hallway, and into the kitchen.
Nobody had started eating yet, but people were passing dishes and fixing their plates. They saw Alessandro.
Everything stopped.
He smiled at them, a dazzling, charming smile, warm and happy and a touch shy. When they said a smile could launch a thousand ships, this was the smile they had imagined.
Grandma Frida put down the salad bowl, raised her phone, and snapped a pic.
“No phones at the table,” Mom said on autopilot, her gaze fixed on Alessandro.
“I’m not missing this shot, Penelope.”
“Buonasera,” Alessandro crooned. “Thank you so much for inviting me to dinner. I haven’t had a homemade meal in weeks.”
When I’d spoken to him an hour ago, he’d had a mere trace of an accent. Now he sounded like he’d jumped out of a Fellini film onto the red carpet.
Bern crossed his arms. Leon scowled. Bug looked like a surprised hedgehog with all his needles up in the air.
Alessandro pretended not to notice and handed the wine bottle to Leon.
Leon took it, baring his teeth. “Keep your filthy hands off my cousin.”
Alessandro smiled again, his face serene, as if Leon had just complimented him on his choice of wine. “Please forgive me, the selection in the local stores is rather limited, but I was able to find a decent variety of Grenache.”
“You can take that wine and shove—” Leon started.
“Leon,” Mom said.
He clicked his jaw shut and went to get the wineglasses.
“Thank you for the wine,” Mom said. “Please join us.”
Alessandro stepped to my chair and held it out for me. Runa leaned on her elbow, clearly enjoying the show.
Grabbing the chair and hitting him with it was out of the question. I sat and let him scoot it closer to the table for me.
A phone flashed as Grandma took another picture. I clenched my teeth and stared straight ahead.
We passed the food around.
“You’re very pretty,” Matilda observed. “Are you a prince?”
“No,” he told her with another dazzling smile. “Only a conte. A count.”
“Hot damn,” Grandma Frida said.
A quiet thud sounded. My mother had set her glass down with some force.
For a brief time, nobody spoke as everyone dug into the food.
Alessandro ate like a starving wolf. His manners were flawless, but the food disappeared off his plate with staggering speed. He finished it all and went in for seconds.
“This is delicious,” Ragnar said around a mouthful of food.
“The chicken is ottimo,” Alessandro said, looking at my mother. “La cena migliore che abbia mai mangiato. Absolutely wonderful. I could eat this every day until I die.”
The chicken was “delicious,” and it was the “best dinner he had ever eaten.” Give me a break.