Chapter 18 Trilby #2
The waiter returns quickly and pours us each a glass of water. I barely wait for him to finish before I gulp mine down in one. A trickle slips down my chin, and I finally avert my eyes to dab at it with a napkin.
“I’m not as hungry as you, it seems,” Cristiano says.
I arch a brow. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you growing men need to eat?”
“I kind of hope I’ve stopped growing.” He tips back his own water, and unlike me, he doesn’t spill it down his chin. “It would be a pain to have to go up yet another shoe size. Sixteens are already hard to come by.”
I gulp and lean backward, only to silently curse the tablecloth for concealing everything south of his waist.
I lift the drinks menu and fan myself. I was shivering a minute ago—why has it suddenly become so damn hot in here? The last thing I want is to coat my body in a sheen of sweat before I change into my bridal gown.
“How did you sleep?”
His abrupt change of topic startles me.
“Um, I slept well, thank you . . . Relative to how I normally sleep.”
“And how do you normally sleep?”
“Fine.” I force a smile onto my face.
“Fine?” There’s a note of impatience in his voice, and somehow I know I’m not going to get away with confessing anything but the truth.
My breath shortens. I’ve lived with erratic sleep patterns, insomnia, and night terrors ever since Mama’s murder, but I’ve never talked to anyone about it. Living in the apartment helps. If no one can hear my screams, no one will ask any questions.
Oh.
My cheeks heat under his determined scrutiny.
“You won’t lock your door tonight.”
It isn’t a request; it’s an instruction. And it sets my pulse racing.
Shame creeps across my skin, making me shudder.
What did he hear? I don’t know what I sound like when I have nightmares—all I know is I wake up drenched with sweat, my throat hoarse, and my limbs shaking.
I don’t want to bring that part of my life into this one—although, admittedly, that ship might have sailed.
I don’t want to bother anyone with my problems—least of all Cristiano. They’re my problems, not his. And I’m not his responsibility. Nor am I his charity case.
“Whatever you heard . . .” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
He watches me steadily, but he looks pissed. “Yes. So you’ve said.” His nostrils flare as he breathes in a ragged breath. “You still won’t lock the door.”
I stare back at him. “I thought I had to for my safety.”
He swallows and wipes the pad of a thumb across his mouth. “Let me be the one to worry about that.”
Not wanting to draw attention to my now quivering hands, I wring them together beneath the tablecloth.
The food arrives mercifully quickly, simmering the tension that’s settled over the table, and I feel full just looking at it.
Cristiano rests his chin on his hands and watches me, his brows raised in a challenge.
I push back my shoulders and swallow the turmeric shot. A flame erupts in my throat.
Fuck, it’s spicy.
I smile sweetly and spear a piece of fruit, then I glare at Cristiano as I chew and swallow. “Are you going to eat your eggs, or do you prefer to just stare at me while I eat?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth as if he’s only just getting started, then he wordlessly cuts into his breakfast. By the time he’s devoured it in four mouthfuls—and yes, I counted—I’ve managed to put a two-strawberry dent into my three dishes.
I gently push the fruit to one side and pick up my spoon. I lift a scoop of granola-laden yogurt up to my face, and my stomach tightens. Why did I choose yogurt? It’s thick and oozy and impossible to swallow at the best of times.
Cristiano’s gaze warms my face, so I do what any worthy opponent would do and go in for the attack. The yogurt sits unmoving on my tongue, and I attempt to smile as I squish it around my mouth. The texture is all wrong for how I’m feeling. The second it slides down my throat, I’m going to puke.
With my mouth still full, I pour out another glass of water and suck a load back before swallowing everything in one go. Then I keep swallowing, because the nausea is already creeping up my esophagus.
Cristiano frowns. “Are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm.” I tap the base of my throat. “It’s a little sour, that’s all.”
He cocks his head to one side. “That’s funny. I thought coconut yogurt was sweet.”
I purse my lips and push the offending dish to one side. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the omelet.
The scent of truffle invades my nostrils, putting my eyeballs on the brink of watering.
What the hell was I thinking? I take a deep breath and feed a morsel into my mouth.
I’m pleasantly surprised. The taste of porcini is subtle, and the eggs are soft.
I can do this. With a look of triumph, I feed more forkfuls into my mouth.
Cristiano sips his espresso and watches me with uncomfortable intensity. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was glued to a pornographic movie.
I’m about to cut another piece of omelet when my stomach groans. I’m full already. I look down to see I’ve barely eaten anything. Defeat makes my cutlery clatter against my plate.
Cristiano clears his throat. “You’ve finished?” There’s a note of glee on the edge of his tongue.
I lift my chin. “No. I’m having a rest.”
A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You can’t do it, can you? You can’t eat any more.”
“Yes, I can,” I protest, but the conviction in my voice is weak.
He allows his lips to curve into a satisfied smile. It’s the smile of a winner.
“You put up a good fight, Castellano.” He reaches over and takes my plate. “Now let’s leave the real battle to the big guns.”
He winks playfully, and it’s devastating.
I could watch him eat for days, so imagine my disappointment when only another six mouthfuls later, he’s devoured not only the omelet, but the yogurt and the fruit cup too.
To his credit, he doesn’t gloat any further, but he can’t hide his smile behind his curled fist.
And neither can I.
I thank God when Penelope helps me into my dress, because my fingers are too clammy and shaky to do it myself. We’re behind a thick velvet curtain, but I can feel Cristiano’s presence as though he’s standing inches away breathing hot air onto my neck.
“Have you been starving yourself, Miss Castellano?” she hisses, my lack of appetite clearly an inconvenience to her. “I’ve never had to take a dress in so many sizes. This is going to be double the work.”
“Then Savero will pay double for your time.” Cristiano’s voice sails over the top of the curtain, and the blood drains from the seamstress’s cheeks.
“I apologize, Mr. Di Santo.” Her fingertips fumble with the pins. “My surprise got the better of me.”
“Let me see the dress.”
His instruction makes us both jerk our heads up.
“Um, Mr. Di Santo, I believe that may be bad luck,” Penelope responds, with wide eyes fixed on me.
“It’s only bad luck if it’s the groom who sees the dress. I am not the groom.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d detect a trace of bitterness on the edge of his tongue. As it stands, I’ve amused Cristiano enough throughout breakfast to know he’s more than likely relieved to not be marrying me.
Penelope continues to stare at me until I realize she’s asking if I’m okay to do this.
I nod once, and she lets the gown fall to its full length.
She walks around me, nipping and tucking the edges into all the right places, until it looks like I was born wearing the beautiful garment.
Then she stands to one side and pulls back the curtain.
I have my back to Cristiano, but I can see his reflection in the floor-length mirror. He’s sitting on the black velvet couch, his knees spread and his elbows resting on them. When the curtain pulls back, his expression is stunned.
Then, as he takes in the backless dress, the waist dipping low toward my buttocks, the skirt clinging to my hips and my thighs before floating outward in a graceful fishtail, his gaze darkens, a treasonous glint drawing in the light.
I’ve seen those eyes before.
He held them over me right before he slammed his fist into his kitchen island.
I move my focus back to the bodice of my dress and concentrate on counting the glass beads and pearls—anything to avoid the rolling thunder in his eyes.
“Is it to your liking, Mr. Di Santo?” Penelope asks nervously.
I listen to the beat of my heart.
B-bum, b-bum, b-bum.
Then he answers.
“It’s exquisite.”
My stomach liquifies, and I lift my gaze to meet his. His stare is no longer indifferent. It’s frighteningly possessive, and I have to look away. I stroke my hands down my hips, distracting myself with the beautiful finish and the craftsmanship.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Di Santo?” Penelope asks.
I look over my shoulder to see Cristiano’s back disappearing in the direction of the exit.
“I have to make a call,” he replies without looking around. Then he yanks open the door and leaves.
My stomach drops. That look in his eye . . .
How will I ever be able to face Savero on our wedding night, let alone our wedding day, when all I’ll be able to see is the way Cristiano stares at me with eyes as black as a starless sky?