XXXIX
Hazel Winters
D awson leads me downstairs to the kitchen and I startle at the crowd of people, busying themselves as if it’s their own home. They rush past me, packing away groceries they have brought with them, as two older women call out instructions in rapid Italian.
One of the women grasps Andros’ head between her hands and pulls him in for kisses on either cheek. The resemblance between them is uncanny, with matching blue eyes and golden hair. Her face looks gentle, defined by soft wrinkles on her tanned skin.
She narrows her eyes at Andros and says something in their mother tongue, before they both turn to look at me. He smiles, his eyes glistening as his mother walks over to me. She starts rattling off something in Italian to me and I frown, wishing I knew what she was saying.
“Mamma, English, per favore,” Andros sighs.
“Where is she?” A thick, feminine, Italian accent calls out. Another woman comes bundling in, her hair in wavy, dark brown locks. She has a harsher looking face than Andros’ mother, and there is no doubting she’s Dawson’s.
The woman rushes towards me, joining her friend in analysing my face. They share a look before turning around to face Dawson and Andros, who are watching the exchange with amusement.
“She’s too pretty,” Andros’ mother announces. I see her cross her arms, no doubt glaring at her son, as her friend mimics her movements. The guys both smirk at each other, their smiles growing wider at their mothers’ reactions.
“Did you kidnap her?” Dawson’s mother asks, clearly not playing any games. I bite my lip, forcing myself not to laugh as both men’s faces fall.
“Of course not, Mamma,” Dawson responds, looking hurt that she even asked him the question. Andros stares with the same scandalised look.
“Well, technically,” I mumble, almost flinching at how fast their mothers turn to face me. I look beyond them to the guys’, shrugging at their outraged faces.
“Dio mio, we taught them better than that,” Andros’ mother shakes her head. Dawson’s mother makes a sign of the cross across her chest.
“We didn’t kidnap her,” Andros tries to defend himself.
“I just woke up at their house, quite a few times,” I shrug, enjoying getting them in trouble. They stare at me for a few seconds and I chew the inside of my mouth, unsure of what’s going on.
“Out!” Both mothers clap their hands and look over their shoulders to the boys. Reluctantly, they slink away, leaving me to my fate of interrogation.
“I’m Ginevra,” Andros’ mother announces.
“Bianca,” Dawson’s mother smiles warmly.
“I’m…”
“Hazel, we know,” Ginevra laughs, “Our sons won’t stop talking about you.”
I try to fight off my blush, but it still creeps across my face. Suddenly, I’m engulfed in two strong arms and pulled into Bianca’s chest. She smells like sweet, flowery perfume, along with fresh baked pastries.
“It’s so good to meet you,” she whispers in my ear before releasing me. I watch in a stunned silence as they begin whirling around the kitchen island, pulling out ingredients from cupboards I didn’t even know existed.
“Do you know how to make pasta, Hazel?” Ginevra asks me, looking up from a mixing bowl.
“I feel like I’ll be kicked out if I say no…” I trail my sentence off, suddenly nervous of their reactions.
“We’ll teach you,” Bianca smiles brightly, beckoning me over. I stand next to her and she passes me some flour, just as Ginevra opens her mouth to speak.
“We need to teach you how to be an Italian wife.”
She winks at me but I’m too busy gaping at her comment to answer. They both erupt in laughter and start to pour ingredients into a bowl.
“Don’t trust her with a knife. She’ll cut herself,” Theo’s voice filters into the kitchen before the man emerges. His eyes meet mine and I glare at him. I watch as the two ladies’ faces light up at the sight of him.
“Theo, mio caro!” Bianca is first to rush over to hug him. He towers over her small frame, which is still a few inches taller than me. He happily embraces her, stretching his arm out around Ginevra too as she joins the hug. They start fussing over him in Italian, and I watch as he smiles genuinely at them, as though they are his own mother.
When he finally frees himself from their grasp, he winks at me and smirks, still holding the bag of flour in my hands like an idiot.
“Look after her, ladies,” he winks at them before leaving the room.
“So, that’s three out of four that you’re dating,” Ginevra eyes me knowingly. I frown, gnawing at my bottom lip as she shares a look with Bianca.
“Atlas, too?” Bianca asks me, failing to hide her smirk. I shake my head, too gobsmacked to respond in words.
“It’ll come. He’s always been a little late to the party in social situations,” Ginevra shrugs and starts weighing out ingredients again like she hasn’t dropped a massive bombshell.
I stand there in shock as they begin making pasta, but it’s not long until I’m pulled into the midst of kneading the dough. By the time we’re rolling the dough through the pasta maker, my black dress is covered in flour.
Andros comes bundling in, clearly having gotten to grips with his crutches. He bursts out laughing at the sight of me.
“You have a little something here,” he taps his nose whilst laughing and Ginevra has to push him out of the room, scolding him in Italian.
“We’ll get this in the pan and get you cleaned up,” Bianca winks at me, surveying my dress. I blush, embarrassed at my lack of cooking skill. Despite my flustered state, both mothers manage to pull me into conversation until my stomach hurts from laughing.
“They used to fight each other all the time,” Ginevra chuckles, talking about their two sons, “I remember Dawson once stole Andros’ clothes and locked him out of his house.”
“How old were they?” I ask, giggling at the thought of Dawson’s prank.
“About ten,” Bianca shrugs, stirring the pasta sauce, “We were out shopping and came home to a completely naked Andros, pounding on my front door.”
My laughter instantly dies as Atlas saunters into the room, commanding it with his presence. He has his phone pressed firmly against his ear, but I don’t miss the way his eyes scan over my disgruntled appearance before raising an eyebrow in disdain.
“Is he always so broody?” Bianca half-whispers to me. I shrug in response.
Truthfully, I have no idea what Atlas is like normally. He always blows so hot and cold with me, showing me pleasure and love before taking it away and replacing it with ice that won’t thaw.
He seemed to be letting me in, only to find out about my father and close the door on me. Now, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me, my very presence seeming to anger every fibre in his body.
Too many times, I’ve thought about what he’s thinking. I’m determined he must believe I am under my father’s thumb, otherwise there would be no reason for him to act so coldly towards me.
Is there?
Ginevra nudges me to indicate the pasta is ready, and I snap out of my thoughts to see Atlas has left the room. I strain the water from the pan and add the pasta into the sauce, both mothers watching with proudness circling in their eyes as I stir the two together.
Dishing up the pasta into separate servings, we carry the bowls over to the table, only for one of the mothers to shriek that dinner is served. I almost drop the bowls in my hands at the noise but manage to keep a hold of myself.
Within a few seconds, the house is flooded with people. All the guys stare at the food with saliva practically hanging from their lips. It’s clear they’ve missed home cooked meals, especially from their home country.
We all sit down and everyone tucks in, whilst I feel a wave of nerves. I can sense Atlas staring at me, but I play with my fork and my food, trying to avoid his heavy gaze.
“Mamma, where’s Alessia?” Andros asks Ginevra, frowning.
“She’s with your Padre but he’s bringing her later,” she replies, before turning to me, “He’s such a good big brother.”
I smile, my heart swelling at the idea of Andros being good around children, especially his sister.
“What are you thinking about, Little One?” Theo asks in a low voice, leaning towards me. I shrug and smile down at my plate.
“Just enjoying the pasta,” I reply, meeting his eyes, which are full of warmth and adoration.