Chapter 5
FRANKIE
The keys to the little red Jaguar are still in my purse. I hold their weight in my palm and consider for the hundredth time what I’m about to do.
Without the car, this wouldn’t be possible. I’m going to take the keys as a sign that I should proceed.
Rico has been blowing up my cell nonstop for the past few days. I haven’t picked up a single call, but I listened to the first few voicemails before I started deleting them automatically—so I know exactly where he’s staying.
I dress casually in jeans and a loose blouse, put my hair in a simple ponytail, and forgo makeup. I don’t want to give off the wrong impression to Rico or anyone else. The last thing I need right now is to come across like I’m up to something that I’m not.
Driving to the outskirts of Vallejo, I play my music way too loud in an attempt to keep from overthinking what I’m about to do.
Forty minutes later, I double-check the address on my GPS as I pull into a small, shitty motel with water-stained aluminum siding, trash littering the parking area, and a few broken-down, rusted-out cars parked beside the building.
Why am I surprised? Leave it to Rico to be as cheap and inconvenient as possible.
A sarcastic scoff dies in my throat. He once promised me a honeymoon fit for a queen. Instead, he ditched me in Roccette, the Fort Lauderdale of Italy, with no money, a bunch of pretty lies, and half a bottle of the cheapest wine available in the entire country.
Looks like nothing has changed.
After carefully locking my car, I swallow my nerves, square my shoulders, and head to the door that matches the number Rico mentioned—43.
I’m getting more nauseous with every step, as the mistake I made hangs heavier over my head, but I just want this problem gone.
I know it’s my fault—my responsibility. At the same time, it’s Rico’s fault too, and since he had the wonderful idea to just pop back into my life out of nowhere, he’s going to help me fix it.
Time to resolve this disaster once and for all. If he’s still here, that is.
I smooth the front of my shirt, toss back my ponytail, and knock on the door.
It comes out as an aggressive bang, bang, bang.
Well, whatever. Let the whole building come running, I don’t care.
A few seconds later, there’s the sound of a chain sliding on the other side of the door, followed by the turn of the handle.
I swallow hard as the door cracks open and Rico’s dark eyes look out at me from inside the room.
His expression immediately lights up and he swings the door wide.
“Frankie,” he says, in that overly confident way of his. “I knew you would come.”
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung board shorts.
Of course. His sculpted torso and deep olive skin are on full display, a landscape of smooth muscle that I used to constantly thrill in running my hands over.
At the moment, though, looking at him bare chested fills me with distaste.
I’m about to tell him to put a shirt on when he waves me inside.
I don’t move. I’m taking him in, taking a moment to just look at the man who once caused me so much pain. Recalling the things I found attractive about him so long ago.
To be fair, Rico is objectively a very handsome man.
Dark, mysterious, suave. He’s just as underwear-model-perfect now as he was then, if your opinion hasn’t been clouded by what a piece of shit he is.
I can’t help but notice the little trail of hair making a path down his abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his shorts—I used to love to trace the trail and wrap my hand around the sizeable cock he’s got at the end.
It’s funny. I remember enjoying his body, enjoying his company, enjoying the way he took control of our relationship so that I didn’t have to worry about a thing.
But I remember these things the way I remember learning calculus in high school.
The information is buried in my brain, but it’s not worth anything to me now.
It certainly doesn’t affect me emotionally or physically, and it’s not anything I’m going to use again. I’m a completely different person now.
Older. Wiser. Stronger.
“Come in, come in,” Rico says, moving all the way back and gesturing inside. I enter but take control of the door, closing it halfway so there’s still a gap open to the outside.
“What is this, bella? You don’t trust me?” He puts a hand over his heart and gives a false grimace. “You wound me.”
“I’m just here to talk.” I cross my arms over my chest and stay close to the door. My traitorous eyes make one more sweep of his body and he catches me this time. A sly smile turns up his lips.
“I always liked it when you looked at me like that. I liked it even more when you touched.” He spreads his arms like an invitation.
I should’ve known he was going to waste my time.
“I’m not here for that,” I say drily, my arms still firmly folded over my chest. “We have a lot to talk about. Preferably with you dressed.”
He sighs dramatically as he turns away. Heading to the suitcase sitting open against the wall, he digs through a pile of clothes and pulls on a gray T-shirt.
I survey the room while his back is to me.
It looks like he’s ordered out from every fast-food place in the vicinity and is going for a world record on stacking the wadded, greasy bags in the tiny trash can next to the dresser.
My lip curls in disgust. How could I have ever been so stupid?
Without turning around, he runs his fingers through his hair as if he’s trying to fix it.
It’s thick and wavy and has a tendency to get out of control.
He used to slick hair oil through the heavy strands and spend an hour combing it just right.
It’s overgrown now, something he never would’ve tolerated in the past.
“Look, Frankie. The truth is…I am still in love with you.” He turns around, and the sincerity in his eyes floors me.
“I ran away because I knew I wasn’t good enough for you.
When I saw how poor of a honeymoon I was giving you, I realized I could not provide for you the way you deserve, and I panicked. ”
“You ran out on me,” I clarify, my tone cold.
“Yes,” he says, his expression remorseful. “I should have waited until I could take care of you better before making you my wife. I realized that—I knew I fucked up. So I ran. I wanted to come back to you so many times, but I promised myself I would not until I made my fortune.”
I cock my head, more skeptical than actually interested. “You’ve made your fortune?”
He comes toward me with his hands open and pleading. “I came back for my first love.”
“This is ridiculous, Rico.” I don’t have time for this. And I’m getting seriously uncomfortable.
“We had the kind of true love that poets write about, Frankie. You can’t deny it.
The passion between us was so intense, so fast. Love like that does not fade away.
Tell me you don’t still think about it.” He reaches for my hand, but I don’t give it to him.
“Tell me you don’t think about our first time. ”
Oh, I do. I’ve thought about it plenty.
Not recently, of course, but now and then.
It was rushed and a little awkward, with lots of heavy breathing on his part and lots of self-consciousness on mine.
All I could think about at the time was that I hoped it felt good for him, because I was sure I was in love and I wanted him to love me back.
Because yeah—the younger me na?vely equated sex with love.
Rico was my first real boyfriend and I thought we were going to be together forever.
Compared to what Dante makes me feel now, I know how totally wrong I was. About everything a relationship is meant to be, or has the potential to be.
Rico’s dark eyes grow heavily lidded as he sweeps me with a heated look.
“I will never forget how special our first time together was,” he murmurs.
“How I took you to the vacant caretaker’s cottage behind the Lezettis’ olive grove and laid blankets on the floor…
opened all the windows so the night air could caress your bare skin, poured us good wine.
You were so nervous, but so passionate while I gave you pleasure again and again…
with my hands, my mouth, and then I took my time making you come again with my cock.
How could you ever forget I made you feel that good? ”
I almost want to laugh at his heavily edited version of that night, how starkly different it is from the actual event.
Sure, we snuck into a dusty old abandoned cottage that reeked of rotting timber and mildew—hence all the windows being opened.
I honestly don’t remember the wine, but most Italian wine is decent, so I’ll give him that.
As for being passionate or having even a single orgasm…
nope. How generous of him to paint himself as such a skilled and gentle lover.
“That’s all in the past,” I remind him. “I’m not interested in rehashing any of it. What I’m interested in is—”
“Okay, okay, so we will start over,” he says, holding up his palms. “Start fresh. Because Frankie—I cannot live without you any longer.”
Before I can reject him more firmly, he’s moving toward me, forcing me backwards until I hit the door. It swings shut, and now I’m pressed against it. I look up at him with a glare.
“Rico—”
Without warning, he cups my face in his hands and presses his mouth onto mine before I can turn my head away.
I go completely still, half in shock and half straight up horrified, the feel of his lips on mine so foreign yet slightly familiar.
My eyes remain open as I assess how this makes me feel.
It’s skin on skin. But there’s nothing else, none of the old fireworks—in fact, there are no sparks at all, not even a tingle of desire.
Just the uncomfortable sensation of having someone much too close to me.
It’s so far removed from how Dante makes me feel that I push Rico off without another thought. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and see the flicker of hurt in his eyes. Too bad. He elicits nothing in me but pity now.
“Frankie—”
“No.”
I put my hand out to keep him back as I reach behind me and yank the door open.
“But you are my wife,” he pleads.
“I stopped being your wife the moment you abandoned me in Italy.”
He reaches for me again, but I already have one foot out the door.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he insists. “I just wanted to be a better husband.”
“Too late.” A snarky laugh bubbles from my throat. “We’re over, Rico. I want a divorce.”