Page 84 of Heart Breaker

“Every day. I have a team of full-time masseuses on staff,” he teases. “I assumed that was common knowledge.”

“I’ve been living my life completely wrong.” I give it right back to him. “I didn’t realize how much tension I’ve been carrying. That was really incredible, Wes. Thank you.”

“I knew you’d like it,” he says. “And you deserve it. You work hard, Lottie. And while you’re my wife, you need to get used to being taken care of. Speaking of…We’ve got dinner reservations in an hour,” he says as we head toward the elevators.

I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the village below. The streets are lined with shops and restaurants, people wandering from place to place beneath strings of lights. An idea immediately forms.

“Or…”

Wes raises a brow.

I grin at him. “Or we could walk through the village.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m listening.”

“We wander around for a bit, then grab dinner to go and take it back to the chalet. There’s a massive deck, a hot tub, and a view worth a million dollars. It seems wasteful not to use them.”

“You don’t want to go out for a fancy dinner?”

I shake my head. “I want to eat in my sweatpants.”

He laughs. “What my wife wants, my wife gets.”

That dinner reservation never stood a chance.

The evening is perfect. The mountains are painted in shades of blue and purple beneath the fading light, while strings of warm lights twinkle throughout the village below. A soft playlist drifts from the outdoor speakers, mixing with the distant sounds of laughter and conversation carried on the breeze. I pop the last bite of my cinnamon sugar pastry into my mouth and immediately regret not buying two.

Convincing Wes to skip the fancy dinner had turned out to be surprisingly easy. All it took was the promise of avoiding a restaurant full of people. We’d spent an hour or so wandering through the village instead, the winding streets lined with charming little shops and glowing storefronts.

I’d dragged Wes into a ski shop, then a bookstore, a cute little gift shop, and finally a bakery that smelled heavenly. He’d followed along with remarkable patience, his hands shoved into his pockets, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from mildly interested to vaguely annoyed.

By the time we stumbled across a cozy Italian restaurant, we were both starving. We ordered pasta, garlic bread, and a bocconcini and tomato salad and carried it back to the chalet. Now we’re full, curled up in lounge chairs on the wraparound balcony overlooking the mountains with the fire crackling beside us. The night is infinitely better than any white-tablecloth restaurant could have been.

“That was incredible,” I say, dusting the last of the cinnamon sugar from my fingers.

Wes looks up from his beer. “That good, huh?”

“The pastry. The pasta. The garlic bread. Wes, that was the best Italian food I’ve ever had. This place is magical.”

He leans back in his chair. “As good as it was, it doesn’t compare to the food in Italy.”

I sigh dramatically. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Have you ever been?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s on my bucket list, though.”

“We should go someday,” he says so casually that for a second, I don’t think either of us register the words at first. Then my eyebrows lift and his do too like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Did you just invite me to Italy?”

Wes eyes me over the rim of his wine glass. “I said we should go someday, that’s all.”

“That’s literally an invitation.” I grin. “You’re taking me to Italy. It’s already in my calendar.”

The look we exchange feels entirely too real for two people who are only supposed to be pretending.

“You know, I think we’d be good in Italy,” I muse.