Chapter 4 Quinn

Quinn

Tempting.

So. Fucking. Tempting.

And sweet. And innocent. And gorgeous.

I should stop my brain from cataloging all these thoughts about my twenty-two-year-old Italian tutor, but where would the fun be in that?

I’ve yet to get any actual work done this morning, because all my brain wants to do is focus on the woman whose scent still lingers lightly in my office from the night before.

But, Jesus, she’s twenty-fucking-two.

My lesson with Alessandra was anything but expected. I’ve been meeting with Sal once a week for a year. Learning Italian has been part of my plan to capture some of my family’s heritage. With both of my parents out of the picture, the way we grew up, there wasn’t time for discussing the family tree or swapping stories on genealogy. And now that I’m older and have more time on my hands, I find it’s something that interests me. And since I know my mother was Italian, it was a logical place to start. I figured I’d learn a little of the language and eventually take a trip there, immerse myself in the culture.

But meeting Alessandra? Swapping flirty remarks in a foreign tongue? It’s been the most exhilarating part of my new little hobby. By far.

Rising from my office chair, I take a deep breath and stretch my shoulders. Fuck it. Work can wait. It’s not like I’m getting anything done anyway. Strolling around my desk, I stop in front of it and look down at the notepad with Alessandra’s neat handwriting. Inspired, I grab my cell phone and begin a new message.

Buongiorno, bellissima, I type and hit Enter. It means good morning, beautiful.

I don’t have to wait long for her reply.

Hello, Mr. Kingsley. ;)

The formality she’s used in combination with the winking-face emoticon makes me smile. She’s so adorably young. God, the things I could teach her. Suddenly, I’m hit with an image of her on her knees before me, those wide brown eyes looking adoringly up at me as her fingers timidly fumble with my belt.

My cock gives a twitch behind my zipper, encouraging the naughty little daydream.

Instead of giving in, I take a deep breath to clear my head and type a reply.

Have you given my proposal more thought? I’d love to take you to this great little Italian place I know.

As I wait for her reply, I wonder if there’s some sort of protocol I should be following. I know there’s something about waiting three days before calling, but I never really learned the rules on dating. Even worse, though, is the thought that she may be the type to play games or blow me off. Alessandra and I are a generation apart. I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, preferring to say plainly what I want and go for it.

But then her reply comes in. Sounds great. When were you thinking?

Are you free tonight? I type.

It’s Friday night, and as soon as I click Send, I could kick myself. Of course she’ll have plans. She probably has a healthy and thriving social calendar—unlike me. My brothers tease me endlessly about the fact that I’m a homebody.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I take a deep, steadying breath as I glance down at Alessandra’s reply.

Yes, I am. Just let me know the time and place, and I’ll meet you.

My heart rate bumps up a notch as I type out the address and hit Enter.

In this moment, I know two things for certain. One, my evening just got a whole lot more interesting, and two, I won’t be getting a bit of work done today.

• • •

I arrive at the restaurant a few minutes early, wanting to greet Francisco, the owner, and ensure my reservation is set. This is one of the most popular restaurants downtown, and I had to work my connections to secure us a table on such late notice.

“The eldest Kingsley.” Francisco grins and takes my hand, pumping it up and down.

He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s appraising me, wondering why it’s me here on a date rather than Gavin or Cooper. To say I’m rusty would be an understatement. I haven’t dated in God knows how long.

“Table for one?” he asks.

I give my head a shake, and that’s when I see her near the hostess station.

Alessandra. She’s here.

She looks stunning, wearing a simple black skirt paired with a fitted white top. A delicate gold necklace rests against her collarbone. Her long hair is curled over one shoulder. She looks unsure, slightly nervous. Her mouth is painted the most distracting shade of berry, and I find I want to kiss her like I’ve never wanted anything in my entire life.

I take a deep breath and force myself to relax.

“Alessandra,” I say, approaching where she stands. “You made it.”

She bites her lip and then flashes me a grin. Her gaze travels along the front of my torso, and I’m suddenly thankful for all the extra hours I spend in the gym.

“Mr. Kingsley,” she says, her mouth curving into a full-on smile now. It’s so bright and transformative, it takes over her entire face, lighting up her eyes and making my knees weak.

I take her hand and lift it to my mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. This small gesture seems to mean something to her, and I’m hopeful my manners and charm make up for the fact that she’s totally and completely out of my league.

"Call me Quinn," I correct her.

Francisco clears his throat next to me. I’m not sure when he approached, but his look is bemused as he watches me with Alessandra.

It’s then that I realize how absurd this is—her and me.

She’s barely legal, so supple and fresh. Jesus. I want her like I’ve never desired another woman in my entire life. Even though I know we make no sense, I realize I’m committed to seeing this through. The thought of bantering with her in Italian is almost as intoxicating as the thought of having her in my bed.