Chapter Twenty One #2
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re very smug in the morning.”
“I have reason to be.”
The heat crawls up my neck.
I look away before my face does something humiliating, like smile.
Too late.
His hand slides over my waist beneath the sheet, warm and possessive. It should make me more self-conscious.
Instead, it makes me giddy and want to move closer.
“Breakfast,” he says in my ear.
I blink. “What?”
“Breakfast.”
“In bed?”
“If you like.”
I glance toward the windows, where morning light spills in through curtains that are not fully drawn. Beyond them, I can see part of the garden. Dark evergreens. Stone paths. Something that looks like a fountain, because of course, Mario Conti has a fountain.
He follows my gaze.
“Or the garden.”
I stare at him.
He says it as if people regularly wake up, have astonishing sex flashbacks, and then wander into stunning and lush gardens for breakfast.
I pull the sheet tighter around myself. “I don’t have clothes.”
His gaze turns very deliberately amused.
“You have clothes.”
"Work clothes."
“You are not presenting before a judge.”
“No, I’m just walking through your house after spending the night here.”
“The house is empty.”
My brain catches.
Empty.
Right.
His sons are still gone.
His sons, who are only a few years younger than I am.
The sheet suddenly feels insufficient as emotional armor. The guilt starts building.
Mario sees the shift in my face immediately. “Victoria.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know you said they were gone for the evening, but it’s morning.”
“They are still gone.”
“Oh.”
That makes me feel worse.
I sit up, clutching the sheet to myself. “Mario.”
"Hmm?" He absently toys with my hair.
“I feel bad.”
“For what?”
“For being the reason your sons were driven out of their own home.”
He blinks once.
Then, to my complete disbelief, he looks amused.
“They were not driven out.”
“They left.”
“They volunteered.”
I stare at him.
The words try to make sense in my head.
They don't.
“They volunteered,” I repeat slowly, “to leave their own house so their father could bring a woman home?”
His mouth curves. “Yes.”
I stare harder. “Is that... normal in your household?”
“No.”
That should be the end of it.
It is not.
Because he says it too casually.
Too simply.
The room feels very quiet suddenly.
“No?” I ask.
“No.”
I swallow.
There is a question sitting between us now, and I do not know if I am allowed to touch it.
Because I researched what I could.
Of course I did.
I am an attorney. I know how to find things.
I also know how not to look like I am looking for things.
But Mario Conti is not exactly an easy man to research, not when half of what exists about his family is in Italian, and the other half is either corporate filings, sanitized business profiles, or vague references that made me feel like I needed three translators and a historical archive.
I know his wife died about ten years ago.
That is all I really know.
Not how.
Not what happened after.
Not what kind of life he had between then and now.
Not whether this house has held other women.
Not whether I am one in a line of many.
And I hate that I care.
I hate that I care so much that the question is burning through me.
Mario watches me for another moment.
Then his expression shifts.
He chuckles softly.
I stiffen. “What?”
“I have not been celibate, cara.”
My face catches fire.
“I did not ask that.”
“No. But you wanted to.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
I glare at him, which is difficult to do while wrapped in his sheet and feeling intensely naked in every possible way.
He reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair away from my cheek.
“I have simply not brought a woman home,” he says.
The heat inside me changes.
It does not leave. Not at all.
It deepens, warms.
“Oh.”
That is all I manage.
Oh.
Brilliant.
Elegant.
Articulate.
His thumb moves along my jaw. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
His mouth twitches.
I look away. “It maybe does the opposite of bother me.”
“Good.”
I should not feel giddy.
I am a grown woman.
A professional woman.
And yet, apparently, all it takes is Mario Conti telling me I am the first woman he has brought into his home in ten years for my entire nervous system to start throwing confetti.
Breakfast ends up in the garden.
Not because I am composed enough for the garden, but because Mario puts on a robe, hands me another robe, and tells me again not to worry.
The robe is black, soft, and ridiculous on me. It falls practically to the ground, the sleeves swallowing my hands if I do not roll them. I pair it with yesterday’s underwear because I refuse to sit in his garden completely bare beneath this thing like some kind of scandalous woman.
Unfortunately, the effect is probably not much better.
Mario seems pleased with it, which is definitely not helpful.
The garden is beautiful.
Everything here is beautiful, like the way it is when someone with an obscene amount of money actually has taste. Stone terrace, black iron furniture, thick hedges blocking the world from view. The air is cool enough that the coffee steams when it is poured.
Beyond the terrace, the garden spills out in layers. Not wild, exactly, because nothing in Mario’s life seems truly unmanaged, but lush in a way that feels deliberate without looking stiff.
Flower beds are overflowing with late-season color, deep burgundy dahlias, cream roses, purple salvia, and clusters of white hydrangeas beginning to blush faintly green and brown at the edges.
Ornamental grasses sway along the stone path, tall and feathery, catching the morning light like silk. There are herbs planted near the terrace, rosemary, and basil, and thyme, their scent rising sharp and clean whenever the breeze moves through them.
Farther back, the garden turns darker and more private. Cypress and evergreens stand like guards along the hedges, and climbing vines crawl over a black iron arbor heavy with the last stubborn flowers of the season.
The leaves have not turned yet, but hints of gold and rust show at the edges, just enough to remind me summer is ending.
A fountain sits half-hidden beyond the hedges, the low sound of water moving beneath the clink of silverware and porcelain.
It should feel too perfect, too curated, but instead, it feels secluded.
Protected. Like the outside world has been trimmed away and kept on the other side of the walls.
Breakfast is simple but perfect.
Eggs, fruit, warm bread, butter, jam, espresso for him, coffee for me. He watches me eat with the same satisfaction he had when he ordered food for me the other night.
“You enjoy feeding people,” I say, spreading jam over toast.
“I enjoy feeding you.”
My knife stills.
There it is again.
That honesty that slides under every defense I have.
I take a bite so I do not have to answer.
He smiles into his espresso.