Ohmigod, what am I doing?
I know I’m playing with fire. Within minutes of talking to Tag today, I quickly surmised that he’s dangerous. To hearts, to minds. Certainly to panties. Mine feel in danger of combusting just watching him, for heaven’s sake. Which is unlike me. In fact, all of this is pretty unusual for me. I can’t remember the last time I was so immediately and thoroughly intrigued by a man, or the last time I considered doing anything with such reckless abandon. I don’t even flirt! Maybe that’s why this is to tempting to me—it’s not something I would ever do. He’s not someone I would ever do.
And maybe that makes him perfect.
“I don’t think it would be rude of you. Dangerous, maybe, but not rude.”
“Dangerous, how?”
Tag wipes his hand on a towel and turns toward me. With his eyes on mine, he takes a few steps to close the gap between us. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asks. My body is like a tuning fork, reacting to the vibration of his gruff voice in a quiet shiver that moves all the way through me.
“No,” I answer honestly, realizing that I’m probably way out of my depth with a man like this.
“Well, when you are sure, you just let me know. I’d be more than happy to . . . educate you when you’re ready.”
With him so close, I feel claustrophobic. But in the best possible way. His eyes are glued to mine, the silver of his irises appearing to flow around his dilated pupils like mercury. I can’t look away, even though it’s hard to breathe. But now, I’m not even sure I want to. I like the feel of him crowding me. I like the feel of his body heat radiating into mine. Plainly put, I like the way he makes me feel.
“What makes you think I need educating?”
“Maybe I’m just hoping that you do.”
“I could always lie.”
“And I could always believe you.”
Stella’s soft voice interrupts from somewhere behind Tag. “Is this why you were shooing me out of here?”
I hear her, but I can’t see her. Tag is so big, his presence so consuming, I’m not sure the world even exists beyond the breadth of his shoulders.
Beautifully sculpted lips tip up at one corner before he replies to his mother. “No, Mom. I was just getting the bread.”
Tag leans in to reach onto the counter behind me, his chest brushing mine and his arm grazing my hip. I hear the rattle of a bag and then he’s leaning away, a ring of Italian Ciambella bread gripped in his long fingers.
When he steps away, air rushes back into my lungs as though he had consumed all the oxygen around me when he was near. I sag ever so slightly against the counter and plaster a polite smile on my face.
“I can finish,” Stella tells her son when he returns to the stove with the bread. He holds it aloft, out of her reach.
“You need to rest. I told you I’d take care of this. But thank you for watching it while I showered.”
She gives him a stern look, but she doesn’t argue, and even now, I notice the unnatural pallor to her skin. “At least let me set the table.”
“You don’t even feel well enough to stay and eat. I’m certainly not going to let you do the work.”
“But I—”
“Don’t make me pick you up and carry you out of here,” Tag threatens with mock severity.
Stella smacks her lips and dismisses him with a wave of her hand. Her small smile returns, though, when Tag bends his head to kiss her cheek and then physically turns her away from the stove, one big hand cupping her shoulder.
Stella exits slowly, more slowly than I remember her moving in previous years. Of course, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her, but she can’t be much over fifty. I would think she’d still have lots of spring in her step. But she doesn’t.
When she disappears around the corner and out of sight, I drag my eyes back to Tag. He’s got a long bread knife in one hand, slicing the ring in half. Although his expression is inscrutable from this angle, there’s an air of melancholy in the kitchen now that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
“Is your mom okay?”
“Not really.” His beautifully buttery voice holds so much sadness that my heart aches for him, this handsome man that I don’t even know.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Although I’m curious, I don’t ask for details. I simply wait to see if he offers any.
“She’s got cirrhosis,” he confesses softly.
I gasp. I can’t help it. “Oh God! Is it because of—”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head and turning to meet my eyes with his now dark gray ones. “No, it’s not alcoholic cirrhosis.”