Chapter 3 Alessandra

“So, what text does Sal have you working from?”

“None, actually. We mostly just talk. In the language. So, shall we talk?”

That look, the one plastered on his face. All subtle eye crinkles and sexy secret smile. That look has me crossing my legs and curling my toes. This is a challenge.

Okay, Mr. Kingsley. Let’s talk.

“What do you like to talk about?” I ask in English. A good tutor knows not to overwhelm a student on the first day.

“Libri, musica, vita,” he says. Books, music, life. “Mostly vita.” He smiles, owning the cuteness of his English and Italian coupling.

“Soprattutto della vita,” I say with a forgiving nod. Above all, life. “Parlami della tua vita.” Tell me about your life, I say in Italian, then continue in English, “so I can understand where you are in your lessons.” And understand you, I want to add.

And so, in his deliciously rich baritone Italian, Quinn Kingsley tells me about himself. He’s thirty-eight, older than I imagined. Not a strand of silver in his dark hair, although I imagine a little salt and pepper would only make him more attractive.

Focus, Alessandra.

He co-owns a dating service with his two brothers. He doesn’t know much of his family history or heritage, but he’s Italian and wanted to learn the language. The language of love, he calls it without a drop of sarcasm.

I smile. He’s a romantic. A romantic with some gender confusion with his nouns and shaky pronunciation, but a romantic nonetheless.

I realize he’s stopped speaking, waiting for my response. My thoughts finally catch up.

“Scusa?” I ask. Sorry?

He’s quiet for a moment, his dark eyes penetrating mine. “Io sono attratto da te,” he repeats, and the words linger in the air between us. I’m attracted to you.

What do you say to that?

“You’re uncomfortable.” He’s speaking in English now, genuinely concerned. “Why? Surely, men tell you this every day.”

Is this what it’s like to be flirted with by an older man? The complete confidence, the lack of expectation of compliment in return, the sincerity?

My God, it’s exhilarating.

“No,” I manage to say, also in English. “Honestly, you’re the first. . .this week.”

We both chuckle at my blatant exaggeration.

“Certainly,” he responds, and there isn’t a drop of condescension in his voice.

I like that he allows my fib. There’s something so sexy about this back and forth. It’s like playing with fire, letting the oil spit a little before settling in the pan. I uncross my legs, hoping to alleviate the tension building there.

“You’re very forward, Mr. Kingsley. I don’t experience that often,” I say, my tone suggesting something more than observation. I think I’m flirting.

But I’m also being honest. I hardly have a social life these days, and don’t meet many men. Certainly none as dashingly handsome and confident as the man seated before me.

He leans forward, his suit jacket pulling attractively against his torso, and I hold my breath. “It’s Quinn, please. And, Alessandra,” he whispers softly an Italian phrase I have to mull over for just a second.

The laughter that breaks the quiet isn’t recognizably mine until I cover my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper with a hidden grin, “but you just said you wish to breed with me.”

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs under his breath. “You can guess that Sal and I never really exchanged such words. I suppose I need the practice.”

“Well, I’d be happy to make up for any lack in your education so far.” What am I doing?

“I look forward to it,” Quinn says and pushes to his feet.

He offers his hand to me, and I accept the gesture greedily. We stand like that, hand in hand, for longer than a courtesy.

“Our time is up.”

He can’t be right, can he?

“Really?” I say, like Erica when I tell her it’s time for bed. I cringe at how young I must seem to him, and he smiles. And that’s when I remember that I was late tonight.

“Perhaps we could make up for the time lost over dinner tomorrow.”

Despite his consistent forwardness, the invitation still sneaks upon me as a surprise. I open my mouth to respond, yet all that comes out is a soft whimper as I try to compose myself. The way he tilts his head to watch me has me tingling all over.

“Alessandra,” he says, and when he says my name, I nearly drop dead. “How old are you?”

Ah. The fun’s over now. I remove my fingers from his warm, open palm.

“Twenty-two,” I respond, all business. Good-bye, my sweet flirtation. It was lovely.

“Jesus,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Is that the glow of the sunset warming his cheeks or a faint blush? Maybe this doesn’t have to end so soon after all.

“I like how you put yourself out there,” I say to reassure him. “It’s refreshing. New.”

His gaze flits back to mine. I was staring, wasn’t I?

“How long has it been since you asked a gi—a woman,” I say quickly, correcting myself, “on a date?”

“A long while.” There’s no shame in his voice. Just something like loneliness.

I turn away from our spot near the window and approach his desk. Picking up a pen, I jot my phone number on a notepad sitting in the open. “Last time I gave a guy my number, he sent me nothing but unwarranted pictures.” I feel him standing behind me, maybe inches between us, and I turn around to meet his gaze.

“I would never give you anything you didn’t ask for.”

Holy hell. “Text me if you’re serious about continuing lessons with me. And I’ll think about dinner.”

“I will. Ciao, Alessandra.”

“Ciao.” With that, I walk out of the office, my boots tapping on the marble floors past reception and into the elevator.

I stand tall until the doors close, at which moment I melt into a puddle. My red-hot cheeks glow in the elevator’s mirrored wall, and goose bumps race up and down my arms. It takes a moment to regain feeling in my fingertips, but when I do, I rub them against my lips.

I’m hungry, starving, and I didn’t know it until it was right in front of me.

Until he was right in front of me.

I survived this round, but would I manage an entire meal with this man? His intensity is contagious, but can I keep up? He has sixteen years on me.

On me. What would it feel like to have Quinn Kingsley on me?

• • •

“I bet he’s experienced as hell.”

My friend Deanna knows exactly where my mind has traveled. We’re sitting in a corner of our favorite bar, tucked away where we can whisper our dark secrets over Moscow mules. Tonight, she told me about her latest sexcapade with a coworker. In return, I told her the whole story of Quinn Kingsley.

She takes a dainty little sip of her drink, her eyebrows waggling. “And I don’t mean in Italian.”

“Oh, my God.” I groan, dropping my head into my hands with every kind of frustration imaginable. Namely sexual.

“Come on. What are you so panicked about? A sexy, wealthy older man wants to take you on a date. Or—wait—did I totally misinterpret this story? He’s sexy, right? Not creepy? Am I already drunk?”

I laugh. “No. He isn’t creepy. The opposite, actually. I feel like the creepy one.”

“Why?” Deanna whispers, scandalized. “Did you, like, get caught ogling his package?”

“No.” I laugh again, taking a sip. “He’s my student. Isn’t there supposed to be a decorum between teacher and student?”

“Like what? Thou shalt not fuck?”

“Deanna!” I never know what this girl is going to say in public.

“Aly, you’re both adults, and you’re leaving in a few weeks. Live a little. But don’t live so much that you don’t spend any more time with me, ya feel?”

Smiling, I take her hand. “Yeah. I feel.”

And, boy, do I ever.