CHAPTER 7

I spun around with a sharp intake of breath, my hand flying to my chest.

Victor stood just a few feet away, watching me with those piercing blue eyes. He was so quiet I hadn't heard him approach at all. He'd changed since earlier—now he wore a dark suit, perfectly fitted, the kind that probably cost more than three months of my rent. A white shirt underneath, open just slightly at the collar. No tie.

He looked devastatingly good.

And I was standing there in my sale-rack wrap dress and drugstore lip gloss.

"I—yes," I managed, my voice coming out slightly breathless and embarrassing. "Yes, it's stunning. I couldn't walk past it."

The corner of his mouth lifted. He looked at the painting for a moment, something quiet and thoughtful moving across his face.

"My son painted it," he said.

I turned back to the canvas, surprised. "I didn't know Rob painted."

"Not Rob." Victor's eyes moved back to me. "Dante. My oldest."

Oh. I looked at the painting again with new eyes. Dante, who I hadn't met yet. Dante, whose name had made something flicker uncomfortably across Rob's face downstairs. Dante, who painted like this.

"He's incredibly talented," I said honestly.

"He is," Victor agreed simply. No performance in it, no pride. Just a quiet statement of fact.

A small silence settled between us. I became suddenly, acutely aware of how I was dressed. Victor looked like he was about to attend a business dinner in Milan. I looked like I was about to run errands on a Saturday morning.

"I'm so sorry," I said, looking down at my dress and then back up at him. "I didn't realize dinner would be formal. Rob didn't tell me. I would have packed something more appropriate if I'd known. I only have—" I gestured vaguely at myself. "This."

As I spoke, Victor's eyes moved. Slowly and deliberately, they traveled down from my face, over my shoulders, down the length of my dress, all the way to my feet, and then back up again. It wasn't rude. It wasn't leering. It was calm and unhurried and completely unashamed, and it made my skin feel like it was about two sizes too small for my body.

His eyes met mine again.

"You look perfect," he said. His voice was low and even, with that slight Italian accent threading through each word like silk. He said it the way someone stated a simple, obvious truth—not as a compliment designed to make me feel better, but as a fact he saw no reason to dress up.

Heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks so fast I felt dizzy with it. I could feel the blush spreading across my face and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.

I dropped my eyes and pressed my lips together and said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

"Come," Victor said simply. He moved to stand beside me and placed his hand at the small of my back.

Even through the fabric of my dress, I felt the warmth of his palm immediately. It was a light touch—barely there, just enough to guide me gently in the right direction as we began walking toward the staircase together. The kind of touch that a gentleman gave a guest. Polite. Proper. Completely appropriate.

So why did it feel like anything but?

I kept my eyes forward as we walked, my heart beating too fast and too loud inside my chest. I focused on the marble staircase coming into view ahead of us, on putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling, on breathing in and out at a normal, unremarkable pace.

But underneath all of that careful, deliberate focus, something I didn't want to name was quietly making itself known.

I was attracted to him.

The thought arrived without warning and without any interest in being ignored. I tried to push it aside immediately—tried to label it as stress, exhaustion, the emotional wreckage of the day catching up with me and twisting my brain sideways. I tried to remind myself who he was. Victor Marchetti. Rob's father. My boyfriend's dad.

My boyfriend. Who had called me a slut for wanting him. Who had let another woman touch him right in front of me. Who had walked ahead of me all day without once looking back.

None of those reminders helped.

Because the man walking quietly beside me, his hand warm and steady at my back, had called me beautiful without being asked. Had looked at my ordinary dress and told me I looked perfect. Had stood in this hallway and talked to me like I was worth talking to.

And I was terrified of how much that meant to me right now.

I was terrified of how much I wanted him to keep his hand exactly where it was.