Chapter 6
FRANKIE
Dante leans back in the booth with his arms spread as I heave on his Italian merino trousers.
A collective gasp and disgusted groan go through the diner.
Dante looks shocked. His suit is obviously ruined. So is the appetite of everyone in the restaurant.
“Free milkshakes for everyone!” I say flippantly as I grab a napkin from the table and wipe my mouth.
The couple in the booth next to Dante’s gets up and leaves without ordering, and a few more customers waiting up front to be seated decide to walk out instead.
I should care, but I don’t.
“Sorry about your suit,” I tell Dante, my voice deadpan.
“God, Frankie, are you okay?”
The honest concern in his voice pulls something in my heart, but I don’t get a chance to respond as Charles storms over, clipboard clenched in one meaty fist.
“Frankie! What did you do?”
Before I can explain, my boss launches into one of his tirades.
“This is unacceptable. First you screw up more orders than I can count, then you practically run the milkshake machine dry, and now you’re getting sick on customers. Do you think I—”
“Is this really how you run a business? By forcing an obviously sick woman to work?” Dante says as he gently moves me aside and stands, tall and imposing despite the vomit on his Tom Ford suit. His face is that hard slab of stone I hate so much, but it’s not pointed at me this time.
Charles draws back as Dante comes face-to-face with him.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Dante goes on. “And how do you know she’s not infectious?”
The entire restaurant is openly staring at us now.
“Sir, please, keep your voice down,” Charles shushes Dante, glancing around nervously.
“Did she fail to mention that she was feeling unwell?” Dante prods, making no effort to lower his volume.
Charles hesitates. “Not exactly. She said—”
“Ah. Yet you didn’t think to assess the severity of her illness in order to determine if she was fit for work.”
“I’m hardly qualified to—”
Dante doesn’t let my boss get a word in edgewise. “Which she clearly is not. Which means you could have easily diverted this disaster by properly doing your damn job.”
“Sir, please,” Charles pleads, sweat visible at his brow.
“It’s really not so bad,” I cut in. “It’s just a banana.” I turn back to Dante and say, “I’m sure I can get it cleaned up if you’ll just come into the bathroom for a moment. Sir.”
Charles hurriedly agrees and herds us toward the back, yelling at a busboy to come clean up the booth.
My husband doesn’t say another word as I lead him into the men’s restroom and lock the door behind us.
I can’t help feeling a little pleased to note that he’s looking green around the gills himself as he swallows hard and loosens his tie.
“Are you going to throw up, too?”
He doesn’t respond.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Oh boy. You really are, aren’t you?”
“I have a change of clothes in my car. Go get them.”
I wait for him to say please, but of course he doesn’t.
“Fine,” I say. “I could use some air anyway.”
I leave him there and take the back door into the alley and then make my way to the street, where there’s a line of tourist shops.
I don’t bother going to his car, nor do I know which one is his anyway.
He never said, and I didn’t ask. Instead, I pop into a nearby tourist trap and grab him a pair of red, white, and blue swim trunks with glittery stars all over the ass.
And a bright orange T-shirt that says, “FBI: Female Body Inspector.”
Giggling to myself as I pay with the tip money in my apron, I go back to the diner and knock on the restroom door. When Dante lets me in, I find him in nothing but his briefs, holding on to his keys and his wallet. His suit is stuffed in the trash, and he’s looking considerably less green.
I do a double take at his hard body, the smooth olive skin and tight abs bared for my view. For half a heartbeat, I’m so turned on that I stop breathing.
Pregnancy is clearly doing some things to my hormones, and the urge to jump his bones in this dingy little bathroom is nearly overwhelming.
I thrust the bag at him. “Here. It’s the best I could do.”
He pulls the clothes out of the bag. His cheeks turn red with anger.
“Your car was locked,” I say with a shrug.
“I am not wearing this.”
“Then don’t. Walk out naked for all I care. Maybe one day you’ll learn to say please.”
With that, I glide out of the men’s room and head straight to the break room, silently calculating how many milkshakes are going to come out of my paycheck today—in a concerted effort to push back the wave of horniness still washing over me.
My stomach growls painfully, and I realize I’m hungry again.
Damn it all. I press a hand to my abdomen and glance around the break room for something to eat.
All I see is an open single-serve package of soup crackers on the table.
The crackers look stale and broken, but I dump the whole thing into my mouth anyway.
“Imagine that,” comes a voice from the doorway. “Here you are, not working, once again.”
Fucking Charles.
“Just got the customer cleaned up,” I tell him. “Everything’s fine now.”
“It’s not fine, Frankie. It hasn’t been fine since I hired you. If I didn’t need the help so bad, you’d have been gone already. You know you’re the only waitress in my thirty years of managing a restaurant who has actually vomited on a customer.”
“Enough.”
Dante strides in. He’s dressed in the outfit I bought him, clearly on his last nerve. And Charles is about to get it.
“I’ve had enough of your indifference to the health and safety of your staff,” he growls. “I’m going to assume that you have no idea who you’re dealing with, or you would’ve thought twice before speaking to my wife that way.”
He looks incredibly imposing, despite his ridiculous outfit. It’s just an aura that Dante wears. Charles knows he’s in deep shit. His face drops, his skin going pale.
“Wife?” Charles sputters.
Dante looks at me. “Get your things. You’re done for the day.” Then he turns his piercing eyes back to my boss. “I’ll be taking care of her now, since you’ve done such a shit job of it. But don’t for a second think you can get away with treating the rest of your employees so poorly.”
Somehow, he’s so stern that Charles immediately starts apologizing—which isn’t a reaction I’ve ever gotten from him. Must be nice to be a man. Fuck, how does Dante manage to still be so commanding in that stupid FBI shirt?
Once I grab my things and we’re outside, Dante hustles me into his rental car. I don’t get a chance to really figure out how I feel about this sudden turn of events as he races through traffic, speeding as if he’s on a mission.
We drive for about twenty minutes, taking the causeway over Biscayne Bay, until 195 dumps us out on West 41st Street in Miami Beach.
I’m so busy admiring the view of the ocean that I don’t realize we’ve arrived at our destination until Dante slows to a stop, pulling into the valet line at the Fontainebleau. Where he has a room, apparently.
I gawk out the window, taking in the luxury hotel.
I’ve been wanting to see the inside of this place since I first arrived in Miami, but never felt like I had the right clothing.
You have to be dressed to the nines to even walk through the door, and I didn’t bring any designer wear with me when I left Napa.
As we wait for a valet, I tear my eyes from the curved white and glass facade of the building and face him. “We need to talk.”
“It can wait until we get up to the room.”
I don’t bother arguing. I’m too exhausted.
The valet pauses when he gets a look at my husband’s outfit. And then he looks to me as if this is some kind of joke, but of course I’m in my tacky polyester waitress dress. Dante throws money at him as he opens the door and slips out.
“Dante Bellanti. Don’t lose my keys,” he says, and then comes around to open the passenger door for me, helping me out like I’m an invalid.
I don’t fight it. I’m too enamored by the sunlight spilling through the glass-paned awning above us, the perfectly manicured tropical foliage all around, the expensive smell of the hotel’s signature scent—Green Bamboo—wafting out the doors on a cool wave of air conditioning. Yas.
Just as I suspected, everyone inside is dressed in designer finery. Even those who are dressed more casually, for the pool or other leisure activities, look like a million dollars. Everyone turns to stare at us, my cheap waitress outfit and Dante’s FBI shirt drawing more than a few looks.
When we finally get into the elevator, I can’t help but laugh. I’m surprised we didn’t get kicked out for breaking the dress code. Dante doesn’t seem one bit amused.
I barely get a chance to take in the spacious, luxurious suite as Dante steers me immediately into the bedroom and gently pushes me onto the bed.
“You need to rest,” he tells me.
He arranges the pillows and blankets, tucking me in like a child, and then draws the shades over the three-sided garden view window before going into the next room.
I hear him ordering room service: tea and soup, steamed basmati rice, a carafe of water, and a ginger ale.
Everything is happening so fast, and honestly, this mattress feels so amazing that I really could fall asleep.
The sheets smell like fresh, air-dried linen.
My eyes close, my body relaxes. I’m on a cloud.
“I can’t believe you were working while you’re sick. What were you thinking?” Dante says, coming back into the room and setting a glass of water on the night table.
I sit up with a sigh. Well, there goes my peace and quiet.
He takes his tablet from its case and turns it on. “I’m going to look up the best doctors in the city and make an appointment so you can see someone today.”
“Dante—”
“Don’t. You’re going.”
I frown. His caring attitude conflicts me. On one hand, it’s nice to know that he cares. But on the other, it feels like we’re just sliding back into the same old familiar routine of him controlling me and ordering me around.
“Look, Dante. I appreciate what you’re doing, but I don’t want your help.”
He looks up. “I’m not worried about getting sick. I just need you to—”
“I’m not sick, Dante. I’m pregnant.”