She nodded.
“Small?” he asked.
“Medium,” she answered.
One of the store employees approached her and started talking in Italian.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”
Gio walked over. “She wants to take your things to a dressing room,” he told Emma.
“Oh. Yes. Grazie,” Emma said as she handed over the stack of clothes in her hand.
“Don’t we have one semiformal event?” Gio asked.
Emma nodded. “I’d packed a dress that I could spice up or down. And heels.” Really expensive shoes. “If we find something, great. But I’m not going to worry about it. What I really need is a couple of pairs of shorts. And a bathing suit.”
That put a smile on Gio’s face. “Shopping for a bathing suit sounds right up my—”
“It’s the worst,” Emma cut him off.
“Maybe for you.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbed a pair of cotton capris off the rack, and turned toward the dressing room.
Once closed behind a curtain, Emma braced herself on the wall with the mirror. Giovanni was inching under her skin at such a slow and steady pace that he felt like he belonged.
And his flirting . . . warm and easy.
She shook her head and pulled her T-shirt from her shoulders.
Outside the dressing room she heard Gio talking with the employee.
Emma peeled off her leggings and replaced them with the linen. Already she felt more like herself. She buttoned up a shirt that matched and stepped out from behind the curtain.
Gio was sitting in a chair opposite her and a three-way mirror.
He watched her every step.
And because flirting went both ways, she glanced over her shoulder. “Does my butt look fat in these?”
Her goal was to make him squirm.
But it was her shuffling from one foot to the next when Gio’s eyes slid down her body and rested on her ass.
Emma felt her cheeks warm.
The attendant emerged from the back of the shop. In her hand were two bottles of sparkling water.
She handed both to Gio and turned her attention to Emma. The woman fussed with the shirt and started a rapid fire of Italian.
“What is she saying?” Emma asked Gio.
First Gio addressed the woman talking, then Emma. “She asked if you had a belt. I told her your luggage never made it from home and that you didn’t have anything.”
“Sì.” She walked away and came back with a matching belt and wrapped it around Emma’s waist. It looked very chic. Very Italian.
Before Emma could say a thing, the woman and Gio chatted again. Out came a pair of simple yet stylish flat sneakers that worked well with the outfit.
“She’s saying that in Italy, women wear tennis shoes with almost everything. Especially in the cities,” Gio translated.
Emma nodded. “Size thirty-six?”
The number the woman understood, and she disappeared again.
“Do you like the belt?” Gio asked.
“I do.”
“Do you have anything like it at home?”
“No.”
He removed the top of his water and sat back.
Back inside the dressing room, Emma took a long look in the mirror. Yup . . . she was in. Into how Giovanni watched her. How he flirted with her. How he was genuinely helpful. How he opened doors and walked on the outside of the sidewalk . . . and damn it, she was a feminist. And wasn’t it a contradiction to want what Gio was offering?
She put on another outfit and walked out.
The attendant shook her head, said something, and walked to the rack where Emma had found the shirt.
“The shirt is too big,” Gio explained.
“She’s right.”
“You’re in luck.”
“For what?” Emma asked him.
“There is a store a few blocks away that sells swimsuits and undergarments.”
“Really?” That sounded like heaven. The daily sink panty wash was getting old.
“Really.” The slightly seductive tone in how Gio replied prickled the hair on the back of her neck.
“I won’t be modeling for you there,” she said.
“That’s unfortunate.” But he was smiling.
“You know, Gio. For a man who said he was on a sexual sabbatical while traveling Italy, you sure aren’t talking like it.” She disappeared behind the curtain, replaced the larger shirt with the smaller one.
“I haven’t caved yet,” he teased.
Yeah, this shirt did a much better job of showing off her waistline.
From the way Gio looked at her when she emerged, he noticed.
Emma laughed and disappeared into the dressing room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was getting hard to breathe around the woman.
Her relentless teasing mixed with the curves of her body. One Gio would kill to see . . . touch. Damn.
He left her in the lingerie store that also sold women’s swimming suits, in pursuit of something just as practical.
Emma accepted him tracking her on his phone so they could meet up should she leave the one store in search of another.
Gio found what he was looking for a block away.
Medium size, hard case . . . snow white.
Black suitcases always looked like the other guys. He bought a colorful luggage tag and, at the last second, a four-pack assortment of Sharpie pens.
Yup.
This bag will be hard to lose.
Before leaving the store, he opened the pens and wrote Emma’s name in big, bold letters on one side of the luggage.
It wasn’t enough.
He fired off a text message to Emma.
What is your home address?
A few seconds went by.
In Temecula?
Yes.
. . .
Why? she asked.
Gio shook his head. The woman asked questions about everything.
Trust me.
. . .
Her address appeared on the screen and Gio wrote it on the bag as well.
Even if she never used the suitcase again, at least this time it would end up at home once she returned.
The store attendant laughed as Gio left.
He walked into the lingerie store where he’d left her, and where her phone said she still was.
Two young women looking at lacy black bras took him in as he walked by.
“Buonasera,” he said before turning his attention to the direction of the dressing rooms.
An older woman working in the store was standing outside of a closed door. “Is that better?” Her English was good, her accent thick.
“I think so,” Emma’s voice called from behind the door.
The door opened and Gio’s smile fell.
“Holy Mary . . .” Bikini. Emma in less than a bra and panties. Yeah, it covered the important bits, but damn . . . Her skin was flawless, ivory. He bet she burned if she didn’t soak in sunscreen. He would love to help her put on sunscreen.
I should look away.
Didn’t happen.
Emma turned in a circle.
“This one fits better,” the older woman said. “Your boyfriend will like.”
Emma twisted around. “He’s not my—”
Their eyes met.
Gio swallowed . . . hard, blinked twice, and found his voice. “Why do I feel like a thirteen-year-old that stumbled into the girls’ gym?”
“She’s beautiful, yes?” the older woman asked.