Chapter 180: Descended from Witches
- RORY -
Finally, the weirdest flight of all time is about to end. But now I’m completely off balance about... everything.
I shared a dream with Luciano—a gross, terrifying dream. I woke up in his arms. I basically accused him of only wanting to sleep with me, because that’s my suspicion, and he had the audacity to deny it in the most tender, sincere way. I hate that I want to believe him.
Honestly: how can Luciano go from hard core flirting mafia guy to sweet, caring flower aficionado and protector? That’s just not... normal.
Then, I told the sweet, caring flower aficionado and protector with warm brown eyes to fuck off, and I meant it. And even though he was the one who suggested I tell him that, he refused.
I swear, Luciano was milliseconds away from kissing me before Carrie came back and told us to get our seatbelts on.
Thank you to Carrie. I don’t know what I would have done if Luci had kissed me at that moment. I wouldn’t have stopped him, but I probably wouldn’t have let him get away with it without drawing blood. And knowing him, something like a bite would only turn him on.
"The women in your dream were stregas," he says casually, securing his seatbelt and leaving the intense almost-kiss forgotten. "Witches."
A shiver runs through me, but I quickly shake it off. It was just a dream. The word "stregas" sounds a lot more ominous than "witches" somehow, though. The two syllables repeat silently in my thoughts, crooked and bent and wrong.
"Does that mean something?" I mutter begrudgingly. I want to remain in the space of anger he opened for me, but it’s already being swept away.
"Maybe it means you are descended from witches," he suggests, dark eyes cutting my way. "They were helping you."
"Descended from witches," I repeat. "I like the sound of that."
"It wouldn’t surprise me at all." A wry smile curves on his lips.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I think you know exactly what it means," he chuckles.
He crosses his ankles with a smirk, and I take the time to really look at him and his choice of clothes for this plane ride. He has no socks. His tan ankles are in loafers of some kind that are a few shades darker than the white slacks he’s wearing. The pants fit closely enough that I can easily imagine the masculine cut of calves and thighs underneath.
A button-down navy shirt has sleeves rolled up past the forearms and a few buttons undone, revealing a peek at Luci’s chest. An expensive-looking black and gold watch is on one wrist. He looks like a guy who is used to wearing suits. Even his casual clothes are elegant.
"Where are your jeans?" I ask.
He glances down at himself. "These are way more comfortable than jeans."
"You don’t strike me as someone motivated by comfort," I snort.
"Why is that?" His head cocks to the side. "Have I ever seemed uncomfortable to you? I’m all about comfort."
I guess he hasn’t seemed uncomfortable. Luciano is always very confident and comfortable with himself. There is no measure of insecurity that I’ve ever detected except for when I’ve seen the unmistakable flash of worry or concern in his expression. Those memories flit through my thoughts, and I fight the urge to clear my throat and make it obvious that I’m the one who is uncomfortable.
"I can only imagine what you sleep in if this is what you wear for comfort," I say, trying to tease him and distract from the intensity of those dark eyes that are back on me.
"What makes you think I sleep in anything?" The sexy eyebrow angles upward again, luring me to make mental images of what he’s just suggested.
God, I walked right into that one.
"Should we ask your sister and Dex if there are safety belts on the bed? Or maybe if they don’t come out of the room, we’ll know for sure," he chuckles.
I can’t help but chuckle at that too, but then I hurry on. "Don’t mention it. Please. She’ll be so embarrassed."
"Don’t mention what?" He asks with another smirk.
"You know what I mean," I say, glaring at him, "It. Them. In there. I swear, if you give Raya any shit for joining the ’mile high club’ or anything else..."
"The ’mile high club,’" he repeats with amusement. "I’ve never understood that term. Planes fly at least six miles in the air."
"Promise me you won’t give her shit?" I ask, ignoring him and his perfectly acceptable logic.
"And what do I get? Not told to fuck off next time?" He says with a challenging smile.
"You told me to tell you that," I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. "You’re making my head hurt."
"Maybe it was the dream that did it," he suggests. "When you hurt yourself."
"I didn’t..." I say, struggling to understand how he could think that was me wanting to truly hurt myself. "I didn’t hurt myself. That was not me. I didn’t have control over it."
"Your head could hurt because of the altitude change. Try opening your mouth like this," he says, modeling the wide mouth people make for their ears to pop and relieve pressure.
All I can do is gape at him as he continues to open his mouth wider and then wiggles a finger in his ear. I want to laugh, but I’m not sure he realizes just how funny he looks right now. And he is clearly missing the point.
"It’s not the altitude change making my head hurt. It’s you!" I chuckle, unable to help myself.
"I won’t say anything to your sister, dolcezza. Calm down," he says, dipping lower into that soothing baritone of his. "Although I can’t imagine what the big deal is. They’re going to be married after all. Even if they weren’t..." He shrugs again.
"It’s a big deal to my sister, trust me. She didn’t even let me see her journals," I mutter, and then my eyes fly wide at what I just said.
"Journals?" He repeats, but the bedroom door opens before he gets a chance to ask any questions about it, and I shoot him a warning glare.
Luciano does not look intimidated at all. Instead, he winks.
Only five or so hours into this vacation, and I’m already realizing that this man is going to be trouble. Big, big trouble. And not in the organized crime kind of way. In the confusing my emotions kind of way.
