Chapter 8
“Welcome to my den!” I declare with a flourish. I bow low and spread my hands, causing Belinda – or is Carla her name? – to have fits of giggles. She swoops in, brushing past me in her leather mid-thigh skirt that goes swish-swish as she walks.
“Wow! I can fit my entire apartment, including my parking lot outside, into your sitting room,” she remarks in awe.
I can see the dollar symbols in her eyes as they dart around my office apartment, taking everything in.
She shrugs off her short fur coat and dumps it on the sofa, revealing her sheer, black mesh bralette that leaves nothing to the imagination.
I watch with curiosity as she plays with her necklace before she spins around the room. “Now this is heaven!” she sighs, dropping to the couch.
I chuckle and enter the room fully. Her sensuous face and flirtatious eyes reel me in.
They'd been what caught my attention at the bar. I’d been nursing a glass of whisky, trying to banish lustful thoughts of Dora.
She's been working within arm's length of me for the past three weeks and it's becoming pure torture.
I draw up short before Belinda, I hope that's her name, slamming the door firmly on thoughts about Dora.
Belinda bites her lip and leans forward at eye level with my dick.
She bats her false lashes at me, beginning to slide her tongue over her lips slowly.
I force my lips to remain still and not break into a grin.
This is a woman who knows how to have a good time! I've hit the jackpot.
“You could put that tongue to really good use,” I say, my advice earning me a sultry chuckle.
With her eyes riveted on mine, she grasps the waistband of my pants and makes quick work of my button and zip.
As her fingers edge around the waistband of my briefs, I clutch a handful of her hair in anticipation.
Suddenly, the doorknob behind me rattles followed by a voice I didn't think I would ever hear in my apartment. I let go of Belinda’s hair and yank the flap of my gaping pants closed with my hands, which are slimy from Belinda’s hair gunk, just as the door flies open.
“Mamma! What a surprise,” I say, feigning happiness at her intrusion.
Her eyes pin me with a look of disgust. Her lips curl with indignation and I'm mentally preparing myself for an earful.
Her chilly gaze darts past me to Belinda and I cringe.
This isn't the way I'd pictured tonight would end.
Before my mother can make quick work of Belinda with her acid words, I turn to usher my guest to her feet with a promise that I would call her.
I pluck her coat from the sofa and herd her towards the door, right past my mother’s disapproving glare.
Belinda tries to speak, but I hush her. I can't be responsible for my mother taking a slipper to Belinda’s butt.
My very Italian mother grew up in a family where the power of Mamma’s slippers solves misbehavior.
Belinda begins to whine in a high-pitched tone once she crosses the threshold, “But we haven't even had any fun yet!”
I roll my eyes just as Mamma hisses behind me. Dio mio! I'm in trouble.
I force a cheerful smile when I'm feeling anything but and I begin to close the door. “Some other time…I promise to make it up to you, Belinda.” I squeeze her shoulder as her eyes widen in surprise.
“My name is Carla!” She sputters just as the door slams in her face. Too bad, Carla. I sigh, raking my fingers through my hair as I prepare to face Mamma.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Lord knows I trained you better than this.” She says quietly, and a wave of shame engulfs me. I could take her yelling, and I could even take her slippers, but I couldn’t take her silence. I scrub my face with my palm and approach her.
“Mamma…” I begin, softly laying my hands on her shoulder because she still has her back to me. She shrugs off my touch and begins walking to the kitchen. I follow quietly.
“I’ve never been more disappointed in you. Ma che cosa stai facendo! What are you doing! Bringing a total stranger into your home…you didn't even know her name!” She harrumphs, banging drawers and cupboards as she searches them. For what, I don't know.
I gingerly perch on a kitchen stool and hang my head in shame.
I've never seen her look so defeated. Her rosy olive cheeks, always bulging from her heartful smiles were deflated, with the corner of her drooping mouth pulled down.
“Before, I never believed what those gossip magazines used to say about you. But now, I do. Che figuraccia. ” I flinch at the meaning of her words. I've embarrassed the family.
She stands in the middle of my kitchen, chest heaving, brows twitching. My mother can be a scary woman when she wants to. Her slight frame and average height don't stop her from looking formidable when she wishes. Sighing, I try to redeem myself, “Mamma…”
Her angry eyes dart to me and I swallow the rest of my words, “ Stai zitto!
Be quiet! Not another word. Your best friend found himself a decent, beautiful woman who loves him and they're getting married. You, on the other hand, are jumping from skirt to skirt with not a single food in your kitchen!”
Her pert nose flares at the end of her tirade, and I groan, did she have to drag Dean into this? “Mamma, you know it's wrong to compare.”
She nods in agreement, “Yes, but I wasn't comparing, only reminding you of facts.” She walks towards me, her eyes growing soft.
I twist to face her as she halts before me, taking my face in her hands.
Slowly, her eyes fill with tears, and I fight the urge to slap my hand over my forehead.
Mamma is good at this game, too good. “Why can't you find a sweet girl like-”
As soon as she begins the sentence I know where she's going, and I inwardly roll my eyes. “...like Dora. She's so sweet and strong. With a lot of sense, not like those flighty women who don't know how to dress for the weather.”
Even though I'm angry at her bringing up Dean and Dora in one conversation, I chuckle because I know she's referring to Carla’s outfit choice.
For women like Carla, the weather had nothing to do with their choice of wardrobe.
Mamma knows how much it irks me when she mentions Dora.
It's like she intentionally uses her name to needle me.
Then it hit me, Mamma may be criticizing me for how I choose to spend my evening, but what is she doing in New York so late in the evening? And why is she at my office apartment and not my house in town?
“Wait… What are you doing here, Mamma? At this time?” My parents live in Santa Rosa, and Mamma is seven hours and over four thousand kilometers away from home. She harrumphs, pats my cheek, and begins to walk away. Oh, no, you don't! I jump off my stool to tail her. “I deserve an answer.”
“And you'll get one!” Comes her sharp reply. “Unlike you, I make no secret of my movement,” she adds with a smirk.
Touché! Mamma – two. Cole – zero.
“Throwing shade when you should be explaining yourself,” I tsk and shake my head, mimicking her. She grins at me, carefully folding her body onto the sofa. I notice that she sits as far away from where Carla had previously occupied as possible. I laugh under my breath. Petty much, Mamma?
“Well, I came here to help Marybeth with the planning. Weddings demand much time and careful planning, which you would know if you agreed to get married.” She turns up her nose at me, folding her arms across her chest.
I eye her. “And what are you doing here, in this apartment, and not at my house?” I drop into the sofa beside her and she smiles at me. It is at times like this, when she really smiles, that I see why my father fell in love with her in the first place.
“Well, I did go to your empty house, and I did try to call you. But it seems you turn off your phone when having a clandestine meeting.” I flinch at the accusation in her voice. “ Anyway, when I called Sally to ask about your whereabouts, she said to check your office apartment.”
I shake my head knowing Mamma must've charmed the information of my location out of Sally.
“Let’s go home, because we're obviously done here. I already made dinner, cacio e pepe chicken, and sent Theresa a grocery list. Since I'm going to be living with you until the wedding, she needs to stock up your pantry.”
Mamma’s announcement hits me like a hundred punches per second. Living with me? For almost two months?
I try to hide the alarm from my face. Mamma may have made one of my favorite dishes, but it comes with a clause. I count to ten under my breath and nod. She smiles and I rise to my feet, ready to hit the road, but the pressure of her hands on my arm stops me.
With a furrowed brow, I glance at her. “ Mio figlo, my son, I know it's hard to find love in a bubbling city like New York, but Dora is proof that sensible girls exist here…if you could just …”
We’re back to this again? I huff in annoyance. “Mamma, the food’s getting cold. I'll settle down when the time is right.” I gently shove her to her feet, “Let's go home.”
She must've heard the finality in my voice because she drops the topic immediately. Good! Dora is off-limits. Even though I enjoyed my little tease from the other day, I couldn't dream of settling down with her. I couldn't do that to Dean.