Addicted to Santino - Amarie Avant Page 0,1

gathered edges, I tell myself that he isn’t the reason for my sudden inclination to touch something. “Is that extra reference how you sleep at night for bad-mouthing a woman?”

The Italian is so tall that he has to tilt his head down, as he’s clearly eager for eye contact. When he has it, he murmurs, “Amore a prima vista.” His tongue dips out, tracing over his bottom lip.

In response, the lips between my curvy hips go berserk. In a trance, I stutter, “You-you say that ev-every time you meet a new conquest, too?”

God, Gina, what the hell is wrong with you?! My core turns traitor as a shiver surges from head to toe. Anticipation wraps around my entire body as I await his confirmation that those words, ‘amore a prima vista,’ are handed out to women like we’re kids in a candy store.

The Italian’s gaze is all the more penetrating. “I’ve never said it in my life, Bella.”

“And Bella?” I snort. The Italian’s calling me beautiful like it’s the name my momma gave me.

“Is there any other word for a gorgeous woman, Bella?”

“I see; you use that term like oxygen. But you’ve never said, I’ve just met you, and I love you?” My voice hollows over how vulnerable I feel uttering those preposterous words.

He growls, huskily, “You’re the first and only. Love at first sight, Bella.”

“Stop calling me ‘Bella’,” I order. Or I will hit you with my purse again. Then bite and scratch and—oh damn, Gina!

“No, Bella.” I’m lost in the genuine, dreaminess of him. “This is where you insert your name so I’m able to switch things up on occasion.”

He winks. Another waterfall gushes between my pants. This is pure game. I should walk away. This asshole has played the field so long even he believes such foolish attempts.

But I cock my head ever so slightly and analyze him. “So, you’re saying, first, I should tell you my name. Second, you believe I’ll be around for you to refer to me by my name or Bella at your leisure.” I stare at his confident eyes and warn myself to not get lost in the depths of them.

A genuine smile fades the fury of lust on his face. He gestures, “So, you mentioned Christmas?”

“I was. Addio,” I wiggle my fingers. Saved by my Uber Lux at the curb. One of my favorite drivers, Thomas, greets me with a nod, opening the back door.

“Should I circle back to your apartment?” he quietly suggests.

“Thanks.” I offer a curt nod. So much for a brief, leisure walk before spending the day—and sometimes night—slaving over paperwork.

In my Bluetooth, I ask, “Nikki, it’s not Christmas, right?”

All my assistants have heard more words than necessary while waiting for me to respond to them. Nikki’s no different. She promptly replies, “Well, Ms. Galloway, if you count Christmas in July.”

“No, I do not.” Oh, thank God. I contemplate, sliding into the leather seat. Every minute of my life is designated with a task for business and, on occasion, pleasure. The holiday season never meets my expectations. It exceeds my outlook if you take into account the shit hitting the proverbial fan.

“So, boss, why do you hate Christmas so much?”

Glancing out the window, I watch as Thomas slides into traffic. “It’s not that I hate Christmas; I love it. The family gets together, dropping less than subtle hints as to when or if I’ll find a man.”

“I understand,” Nikki replies.

Although she’s fresh out of college, I doubt she truly understands. I’m 28 years old, young enough, but too focused for age to matter. “Well, the part I actually love is, how four generations of Galloways, my momma,” I clear my throat. Damn, I’m usually impersonal with my assistants, and this one is new. “The women in my family set aside our sadity mannerisms for peach cobbler bake-offs.”

“What’s sadity?”

“Uppity, sweetheart. Then after the sweets, the gloves come off. But that’s to be expected. The next day, I’m another friggin year older. Thus, making Christmas great.” I mutter, unable to get the man’s words, “amore a prima vista,” off my mind. How could it be love at first sight on his part? Hell, I’ll be honest; it was lust once I figured he wasn’t trying to rob me. But love at first sight? Can’t be. I pout. The Italian never asked for my number. Twirling a finger around my necklace, I imagine how I would have climbed him like a tree–once.

2

Santino Morelli

“I quit!” are the first words out of my