Heaven and Hell (Heaven and Hell #1)(44)

Not in my life.

No Christmas. No birthday. No vacation with my family. And certainly not any times I’d spent with Cooter.

This was saying something. Cooter was an ass**le and tore me down but my family was awesome and even when I was married to him, holidays and birthdays were great. But before Cooter, they were the best.

But no day came close to that day with Sam.

None.

My eyes slid to the side and there he was. Right there.

He was wearing faded jeans that fit him better than any jeans I’d ever seen on any man. He also had on a lightweight, white, button up the front, long-sleeved shirt that was made of soft linen. He had the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. It was kind of wrinkly but Sam could make even wrinkly hot and I knew this because the evidence was sitting right beside me. Further, that shirt looked amazing against his perfect, brown skin. He wore all this like his tuxedo, with a casual, masculine grace that was immensely appealing and even more immensely cool.

What had I been missing all these years not paying attention to his clothes?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

For my part, I decided to introduce Sam to the real me, albeit the new, improved, real me since everything I was wearing I bought in Paris. I had on a pair of black, cuffed, tailored shorts which were short, as in serious leg as in Sam didn’t tear his eyes away from them for a whole minute when I walked downstairs at Luci’s ready to take my boat tour which I felt indicated I’d made another excellent fashion decision. This I wore with a slim, metallic gray, snakeskin belt and my charcoal gray suede T-strap flat sandals. I’d also paired it with a tight-fitting, ribbed, heathered, dark gray tank that had a panel of kickass lace at the top back.

This last, as with my legs, I caught Sam staring at too, numerous times that day.

Numerous.

I was thinking he liked me in shorts and tanks just as much as pretty sundresses, gowns and high heels.

This was a relief.

This was also awesome.

We’d just eaten dinner at a restaurant Luci had suggested and it was a good suggestion, the location was in the hub of it all and the food and wine were fabulous. We were seated outside and when we got there, it was early for dinner in Italy and it wasn’t very populated, except by American tourists. But now that we were done, it was filling up and the sidewalks and streets were getting busier.

The atmosphere seemed alive, you could hear the hum of conversation, smell the garlic from the kitchen, the cars and scooters going by; being out in it, I felt great, jazzed, as alive as our surrounding.

And the best part of this was being with Sam.

And the best part of that best part was partially that, even before we ordered, Sam moved his chair right next to mine so we were close but he found ways to make us closer. He did this by resting his arm across my thighs, his fingers curled in or sometimes stroking my skin, his head twisted to look at me when he spoke or facing forward when he scanned his surroundings (which was, weirdly, often, like he was expecting something). Sometimes even when he was eating and definitely when he was sipping his wine, he kept his arm across my lap. But if his food took his arm away, he kept his thigh tight to mine, not losing some form of connection.

I liked this. I liked the closeness, intimacy, his touch, his warmth and all of what this said about how he felt about me.

I also liked that it was proprietary.

To me, it said I was touch-worthy, he liked the feel of me, he wanted closeness, he was being clear he found me attractive.

But to those outside our little bubble of intimacy, it was claiming. Don’t look. Don’t even think about it. I was taken. I was his.

Some women might find this overbearing.

I thought it was beautiful.

And I was glad we didn’t miss our boat tour and even Sam agreed. Being out on the lake in the sun, the wind in my hair, the views breathtaking, eating Luci’s delicious packed lunch on the cream leather covered bench seat at the back of the glossy boat with Sam while we chatted more about family and friends, sharing ourselves, it was great, beautiful, the perfect day.

I couldn’t quite decide which views were better, from the water or from the shore. What I knew was, I was glad I had both. And better, sharing it with Sam who, after our night together, I had no issues talking with, being myself, exclaiming openly when I saw something cool, pointing it out, sharing it with him. It helped that he was no less courteous and attentive than he’d been before, helping me in and out of the boat, pulling me in his lap when he was seated behind the wheel to keep me close, folding his arms around me and stuffing his face in my neck when I made him laugh.

It was sublime.

Freaking sublime.

The whole day.

Every second.

“Il conto, per favore,” I heard Sam murmur and my eyes went from a mint green Vespa shooting by wondering how much one of those cost and also wondering if I could get one in Indiana, to Sam who was also leaning back, wineglass in his hand, his torso slanted slightly to the side toward me, arm over my legs but his eyes were on the waiter who was nodding at him, smiling and moving away.

“I thought you didn’t know any Italian,” I remarked and Sam turned his head to look at me.

“Asked for the bill, baby, didn’t recite a poem.”

This was true.

I grinned at him.

He grinned back.

Then his face got serious, he took a sip of wine and then set his glass on the table.