3. Aileen
CHAPTER 3
AILEEN
T he red dress makes me look like an overripe tomato. The black one? Too funeral. The blue cocktail number from cousin Maria's wedding has a suspicious stain that won't come out. I toss them all onto my childhood bed, where they join the growing pile of rejects.
"He's after the restaurant, that's what he's after!" Dad's voice carries through the thin walls.
"Sam, lower your voice." Mom's whisper somehow cuts through clearer than Dad's shouting.
I hold up an emerald-green wrap dress against my body. The mirror shows dark circles under my eyes from staying up late doing inventory.
"Four months!" Mom's voice again. "Four months since that disaster with the accountant, and before that-"
"I don't need a recap of my dating history," I mutter to my reflection.
The dress goes sailing onto the pile. Nothing fits right, nothing looks right, and my hair's already starting to frizz in this humidity.
"Eight million dollars!" Dad's voice cracks. "You don't wave that kind of money unless you're up to something."
"Or unless you're actually a billionaire," Mom shoots back. "Which he is."
I sink onto the edge of my bed, pushing aside a stuffed penguin I've had since grade school. The truth is, I don't know what Charles Varakian wants. The restaurant? Me? Both?
"Our daughter is being taken out to a fancy restaurant," Mom says firmly, "and I hope she has a really nice time, and you should too."
A knock at my door makes me jump. "Aileen?" Mom peeks in. "I thought you might want to borrow my gold dress. The one with the-"
"I heard you guys fighting."
"Your father means well. He's just protective." She smooths down my hair. "Now, about that dress..."
"What if Dad's right?" My fingers trace the soft fabric of Mom's gold dress. "What if Charles just wants the restaurant?"
Mom settles next to me on the bed, displacing a few rejected dresses. "Honey, any man would be lucky to have you. You're smart, beautiful, and you can cook better than anyone I know."
"Except you."
"Including me. That carbonara you made last week? Divine." She pats my hand. "Besides, if he is just after the restaurant... well, maybe you should take advantage of the situation."
"Mom!"
Her laugh rings through the room. "What? I'm serious! When else will you get the chance to dine at Chicago's finest restaurants? Let him wine and dine you."
"That's terrible."
"Is it? A few nice dinners, maybe some shopping..." She picks up the stuffed penguin and makes it dance. "New shoes?"
"I can't believe you're suggesting this."
"All I'm saying is, if he's going to pursue you just to get to the restaurant, make him work for it. Get something out of it." She winks. "That's just good business sense."
"You're as bad as Dad."
"Worse. Where do you think he learned it from?" She stands, smoothing her skirt. "Now try on the dress. And remember - whatever his motives, you're Aileen Marella. You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain."
"Yeah, I'm a Marella." The words come out stronger than I expect. Mom's right - I've got nothing to lose here.
"Damn right you are." Mom squeezes my shoulder.
The doorbell chimes downstairs and my heart slams against my ribs. Oh god. He's here. He's actually here.
"You finish getting ready, sweetie. I'll go entertain your date."
"No!" The gold dress pools around my feet as I snatch it up. "Just- just give me two minutes!"
I shimmy into the dress at light speed, nearly popping a seam. The fabric whispers against my skin as I zip it up. Mom's dress fits like it was made for me, hugging curves I didn't even know I had.
Dad's voice booms from downstairs.
"I'll get it!"
No no no. My fingers fumble with the clasp of my necklace. The last thing I need is Dad interrogating Charles Varakian about his intentions.
Mom's heels click toward the stairs. "Sam, let me-"
I bolt from my room, one shoe on, the other in hand. The stairs blur beneath my feet as I race down them. Mom reaches for the doorknob just as I grab it.
"I've got it!" I wheeze, trying to catch my breath while shoving my other heel on.
I yank open the door, and my breath catches. Charles Varakian fills the entire doorframe, his broad shoulders blocking out the porch light. But something's different about him. His face - it's not that uncanny perfection from this afternoon. The angles of his jaw seem softer, more natural. His skin has subtle variations in tone that weren't there before.
Maybe the harsh fluorescents at the pizza place played tricks on my eyes. In the warm evening light, he looks... well, still impossibly handsome, but human. As human as anyone can look while being built like a Greek statue and tall enough to need to duck through doorways.
His eyes lock onto mine, then drift down. The intensity of his gaze traces every curve the gold dress highlights, leaving tingles in its wake. Heat crawls up my neck as his attention lingers. I should feel objectified. I should say something sharp and witty. Instead, my skin prickles with electricity.
"You are stunning," he says in that deep voice with its strange accent. "I only hope that my gift is no insult to your beauty."
Behind me, Mom fans herself with her hand. "Oh my. You never say things like that to me anymore, Sam."
"I'm a pizza maker, not Shakespeare." Dad crosses his arms, but his lips twitch upward.
My knees wobble. The way Charles looks at me, speaks to me - it's like I'm the only woman in the world. No one's ever talked about me like that before. The accountant Mom mentioned? He told me I had 'nice organizational skills.'
But Dad's words from earlier echo in my head. Eight million dollars. That's what Charles wants to pay for our restaurant. For our family legacy. This could all be an act to get me to lower my guard.
A voice that sounds suspiciously like Mom's whispers: So what if it is?
"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "You didn't have to get me a gift, though."
Charles thrusts forward what looks like... a bouquet? My arms drop under the unexpected weight as I grab it reflexively.
"Of course I did," Charles says, his perfect smile gleaming. "Behold, a dozen of your planet's finest flours, as is your courtship custom."
I blink. The arrangement wobbles in my grip - actual bags of flour. Twelve of them. Artfully arranged on decorative sticks like some bizarre flower arrangement. The labels catch the porch light - Italian '00' flour, French T55, rare Japanese varieties I've only read about. My arms shake trying to hold up what must be twelve pounds of baking supplies.
Mom steps forward, stifling what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. "Here, let me take that."
"Can you believe this guy?" Dad throws his hands up in exasperation.
Mom's death glare could wilt flowers - or in this case, flours. Without breaking eye contact with Dad, she shoves the unwieldy bouquet into his chest. He grunts, staggering back a step under the weight.
My cheeks burn. I want to sink through the floor. But Charles stands there, beaming with such earnest pride at his clever gift that I can't bring myself to correct his misunderstanding. Your planet's finest flours? What an odd way to phrase it...
Charles guides me down the front steps, his arm a solid presence at my back. A sleek black limousine stretches along the curb like a polished shadow. Movement catches my eye - Mom and Dad's faces pressed against our second-floor window, not even trying to hide their surveillance.
"Oh for heaven's sake." I duck my head, but Charles follows my gaze and waves at them. Dad yanks the curtain closed. Mom waves back.
The driver materializes from nowhere, all crisp uniform and white gloves. He opens the rear door with a flourish that belongs in a movie.
Charles extends his hand to help me in. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but my fingers slip into his before I can overthink it. A tingle shoots up my arm at the contact - static electricity maybe? But there's something else. His skin doesn't feel quite... right. The texture is smooth, too smooth, like polished metal wrapped in the finest silk. Not unpleasant, just unexpected.
I settle onto butter-soft leather seats, trying not to gawk at the interior. The space could fit my entire bedroom. Charles slides in next to me, his presence filling the cabin with that same electric energy I felt when he touched my hand.
The limo purrs to life, gliding away from the curb. My parents' faces disappear into the darkness behind us. The silence stretches between Charles and me like a rubber band about to snap. His cologne fills the space - something expensive and unfamiliar that makes my head spin.
My fingers twist in my lap. Better to rip off the Band-Aid now.
"I just want to get this out in the open right away. I don't think my parents are going to sell no matter how much money you offer them. It's a Sicilian pride thing."
Charles turns those intense eyes on me. The streetlights passing outside paint shifting shadows across his face. "As you say. I'm much more interested in hearing about you. Are you from around here?"
The question catches me off guard. It's such a normal, almost boring first-date question from someone who just tried to buy my family's restaurant for eight million dollars.
"I was born and raised in Chicago. Never lived anywhere else." I shrug, watching the familiar streets roll past. "It's great. I love my parents, and my life, but sometimes I wish we could have gone on more vacations, seen other places."
The words spill out like a torrent. I never admit that to anyone - it feels like betraying Mom and Dad, who worked so hard to give me everything they could.
Charles leans closer, and starlight dances in his eyes. No - not starlight. Something else, something that pulses with an inner glow.
"There is so much more out there than you can possibly imagine, Aileen." His voice drops to a whisper that thrills me to the core. "Wonders beyond description. Places that would take your breath away."
The way he says it makes my skin tingle. Like he's not talking about Paris or Rome, but somewhere much further. His fingers trace patterns on the leather seat between us, drawing closer to my hand.
"I would show you the wonders of the cosmos, Aileen."
His hand covers mine. That strange silk-over-metal sensation returns, but I don't pull away. My heart pounds so hard I swear he must hear it. He's so close now, his cologne making my head swim. His perfect lips part slightly, and I catch myself staring at them. Is he going to-
The limo jerks to a sudden stop, throwing me forward. Charles's arm shoots out to steady me, strong and solid as a steel beam.
"Sorry Mr. V," our driver calls from the front. "There's some kind of commotion up ahead."
I clutch Charles's arm, my pulse racing for an entirely different reason now. Through the tinted windows, red and blue lights flash in the distance, painting the street in alternating colors.
Charles leans forward to speak with the driver. "How long until they clear the street?"
"Could be hours, sir. Looks like a building fire."
"Our reservation." Charles checks his watch, then turns to me. "Would you object to walking? It's only two blocks from here."
"Not at all." These heels might disagree, but I've worked twelve-hour shifts in worse.
The driver opens our door to a wall of noise and bodies. The sidewalks overflow with people craning their necks toward the commotion ahead. Smoke lingers in the air, acrid and sharp.
A crowd surges past us, nearly sweeping me away in their wake. My heart pounds. The thought of losing Charles in this chaos sends a spike of panic through me. Which is ridiculous - I barely know him. But something about him makes me feel...
His hand closes around mine.
The world stops.
That silk-metal sensation spreads up my arm, but different now. Warmer. Like sunshine on bare skin. Like the first sip of hot chocolate on a winter day. Like...
Focus, Aileen.
But I can't. Not with his thumb tracing circles on my palm. Not with that tingling heat spreading through my whole body. The crowd still pushes and shoves around us, but their faces blur into meaningless shapes. All I can feel is his hand in mine, all I can see is the way he looks at me - like I'm the most fascinating creature he's ever encountered.
"Shall we?" His voice cuts through the noise like it's meant for my ears alone.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He guides me through the throng of people, and they seem to part before him like water around a stone. That warmth from his hand spreads up my arm, across my chest, down to my toes. My skin hums with it.
What is happening to me?