8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Tuesday Evening
The bed creaked and dipped. Danielle’s lids fluttered open in time to see Matteo pull his jeans up over his beautiful, taut ass. Standing at the window, he scrubbed his fingers through his sex-tousled hair. His broad, bare shoulders rose and fell on a windy sigh.
Her sweet, sated haze evaporated. He got what he wanted, and now he was leaving. She hugged his discarded pillow to her chest. It still held his scent, his warmth. Tears prickled her eyes. At least she’d have a beautiful memory.
He turned toward her, and a slow-blooming grin spread over his face. “Hey, sorry to wake you.” He sat beside her and stroked her bare arm. “I have to go help Zio Sal for a while. Rosa, one of our summer hires, went home sick.”
True? False? Did it matter? She released the pillow and entwined her fingers with his. “Sure. Family comes first.” Which was exactly why this rosy little romance couldn’t last—her kids needed her. She swallowed her disappointment and pasted on what she hoped passed for a smile. “Is Rosa one of your Italian cousins?”
He chuckled. “Just a kid from Sal’s church choir. Loves him like a grandpa.”
“Ah.” She curled her body around his as much as the rumpled covers allowed. “Bet she has a crush on you.”
His laughter deepened. “I’m not her favorite flavor. Our Rosa prefers the ladies.”
She bit back a totally inappropriate grin.
He wound a tendril of her hair around his forefinger. “So, here’s the bad news.”
Her stomach muscles clamped down tight as she braced herself for the inevitable kiss-off.
“My friends are getting married on Saturday, one of those hippie beach weddings, and I promised to build them an arch. I’m not even close to done.” He leaned onto his elbow and pinned her with a soft gaze. “I want to spend every minute I can with you, but I can’t let them down, you know?”
Truth or excuse? She forced herself to breathe evenly.
He smooched her forehead. “Will you be my plus one?”
Dumbfounded, she blinked rapidly. “I—uh—wow.”
His bronzed brow rumpled. “Is that too much? Too fast?” He pressed her palm over his heart, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “How about if I promise not to propose?”
A laugh spluttered past her tightly clamped lips.
“Tell you what—I won’t even catch the bouquet.”
Tension unhooked its claws. Giggling, she flopped back onto the pillows. “Okay. Sure. I’d love to come. And I could help you with the arch.” She flexed her biceps. “I’m no carpenter, but I’ve conquered many an Ikea bookshelf.”
“Gorgeous and good with an Allen wrench? You are a goddess.” He smooched her forehead and bounced up from the bed. “Now where’d my shirt go?”
“Bathroom.”
“Right.” He flashed a sexy smirk. “How could I forget?” He kissed her hand with so much ardor she very nearly pulled him back into bed. “I never will forget, bella.”
His damn phone pinged. “But now, I must go. Call you when I’m done? Maybe if you’re not too sore…” He backed from the room, waggling his eyebrows.
“Maybe,” she called.
A moment later, the front door closed with a soft click.
Grinning and giddy, she burrowed beneath the covers. “Holy shit. I’m having a fling. I’m a freakin’ cougar. The book club would be so proud.”
She reached toward the nightstand for her phone but paused, hand in the air. To tell, or not to tell? Their approval would be a welcome balm to her bruised ego. Besides, they were her best friends.
Then again, they’d want to dissect her feelings, and right now, her emotions were a buzzing, sparking tangle. Hell, the whole thing might fizzle out in a few days. Sure, he said he’d call, but perhaps that was the only polite thing to say to a woman whose bones you’ve just bounced. If they made it to the weekend, she’d tell her friends—after the wedding.
It had been so damn long since she’d had any secrets. Maybe it was selfish, but it was thrilling to have something all her own unconnected to her kids, her job, even her friends.
The phone pinged. On the screen, a photo of a roller-coaster with an insanely steep plunge. Noah wrote,
Dad totally puked!
Another photo, her kids grinning between two smirking teen boys. Behind them, Jason looked pale, and Sharla, the girlfriend du jour, looked peeved.
She chuckled. Trouble in paradise?
Funny—in a way, she’d just ridden a roller-coaster of her own.
After a short nap, she rolled out of bed, showered, made a mug of tea, grabbed a paperback, and settled on the deck. The golden sunlight cast long shadows by the time she finished her tea. When she went inside for a refill, she checked her phone. Another photo from Olivia: Noah holding a paper boat of fries. Behind him, Sharla’s boys stuck out their tongues and flipped the bird at the camera. Charming.
She composed a message to Jason reminding him to pay attention to the company his kids were keeping, then drew a deep breath and deleted it. Jerk though he may be, he was also a high school principal and knew how to deal with unruly teens.
Her phone lit up with a new photo that sent her pulse into a happy little mambo: Matteo’s gorgeous smile above a ridiculously large sundae.
Not as sweet as you, bella
She had at least an hour to kill before he closed up shop. Should she walk into town? She glanced over at the fireplace, where her new guitar leaned in its case. What the hell—she had this beautiful place all to herself, with no one to pass judgment on her very rusty playing.
She clipped her nails short on her left hand before carrying the guitar out to the deck, where she lit the gas firepit and settled cross-legged on the chaise lounge. At first, her fingers felt clumsy, but soon muscle memory kicked in, and she strummed the old familiar chords to “Brown-Eyed Girl.” Jason used to serenade her with that song, one of the most romantic things he ever did, even though he was mostly tone deaf.
Now it was up to her to sing her own love songs. She kept her voice low at first. Passers-by heading for the beach with their hoodies, folding chairs, and coolers paid her no mind. Caught up in the joy of playing, she sang louder.
Someone joined in. Her head snapped up.
Arms around each other’s shoulders, four young women on the corner added their “Sha la la” to the chorus. When the song ended, they clapped and whistled.
Flushed but grinning, she waved. “Thanks. I’ll be here all week.”
“Put out a tip jar next time,” one called as they moved off toward the beach.
She raked a hand through her hair and grinned.
Guess I’ve still got it.
A few hours later, hands aching from the unaccustomed exertion, she laid the guitar aside and rolled her stiff shoulders. Too many years since she’d played this sweet nineties love ballad, and she kept flubbing the lyrics.
“Don’t stop. I want to hear the rest of the song.”
The firepit’s glow didn’t extend much past the deck. She peered into the near darkness but couldn’t quite make out his face. No mistaking that dark-chocolate voice, though. “Matteo?”
He ambled into view and leaned on the fence, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. “You didn’t answer my texts, so I thought I’d cruise by. Hope that’s okay.”
“Crap. I left my phone inside. Guess I lost track of time.”
He hovered at the gate, eyebrows raised.
Uncertain. Just like her.
She beckoned. “I’m glad you came. Join me? I’ll put this away.”
“Don’t.” He climbed the steps, sat on the foot of the chaise lounge, and traced the curve of the guitar’s body with his fingertip. “You have a beautiful voice, Danielle. I didn’t know you played.”
She chuckled. “I haven’t for years.”
“Why not?”
Damn good question. The past few hours had flown by. No intruding thoughts about the divorce, no worries about her kids. She’d fallen into a habit of permanent business, her mind always racing ahead to the next job to be done, the next deadline to hit. But tonight, beneath the velvety summer twilight, she was finally catching her breath—a luxury she wouldn’t have for long.
She cleared her throat. “Mom stuff. Work stuff. You know—life.”
“The rat race.” He slid closer, his thigh against hers. “Don’t let it suck all the juice out of your life, bella. I’ve seen it happen.”
“To you?”
He shook his head. “My dad. When I was little, he used to sing to me. Prettiest tenor voice you’ve ever heard. And when he harmonized with Zio Sal—amazing.” Hands clasped, he gazed into the fire. “But he let that damn car dealership swallow up his life. Forgot about music. Said he’d take it up again someday. Then he died.”
She gripped his knee. “That’s terrible.”
Gaze lowered, he nodded. “Tried to pull me down with him.” He swiped his eyes with his sleeve, but his voice rang flat, not wobbly with sorrow. “I was supposed to study business, take over the dealership when he retired.”
“Not the path for you?”
“Got through two years at U Dub before I dropped out to make furniture.” He huffed a bitter laugh. “Dad said I’d never be able to support a family doing that. But what’s the point of supporting a family if you never see them?”
She winced as if he’d slapped her.
His hand closed over hers. “Hey, sorry. That was stupid of me. You must miss your kids.”
“Yeah, I do. A lot. We’ve been renting this same house for ten years. I keep hearing their laughter, expecting to see them turn a corner and—I dunno, ask me for ice cream.” Her own laugh sounded hollow. “Never enough ice cream. Bottomless stomachs, those two.”
He interlaced their fingers. “This must be so hard. But you’ll come back here with your kids. Maybe later this summer?”
His expression was so hopeful, she simply had to lean over and kiss him. But introducing the kids to Matteo? She and Jason had forced enough change into their lives already. She couldn’t put them through another breakup.
He nudged her shoulder. “You got pictures of them?”
“Sure. And wine. Maybe some food too.” She inclined her head toward the house. “You want?”
His chuckle ended on a groan. “Baby, if you’re near, I want. And yeah, I could eat.”
They assembled a quick picnic of crusty bread, salami, cheese, olives, and strawberries. Matteo carried it out on a tray to enjoy by the fire. Danielle brought quilts from the empty bedrooms, along with wine and glasses. While he uncorked the wine, she pulled up photos of her kids.
“This is Olivia. She’s thirteen.” Her mud-and-grass-smeared daughter posed with one cleated foot atop a soccer ball, a triumphant grin on her face. “Says she’s going to be the next Megan Rapinoe.”
He handed her a glass. “Gorgeous, like her mama. What’s her position?”
“Forward, but she’s hoping to make goalie.” She sipped. “And here’s Noah.” In another post-game photo, her youngest leaned on his lacrosse stick, helmet at his feet, his fair hair mashed and sweaty. His familiar grin tugged hard on her gut. Miss you, golden boy .
She forced a steady tone. “Blond, like his dad.”
Matteo nodded. “But smarter, I hope.”
“What do you mean?”
He slid his arm around her waist. “Any man who would leave you is a Class A idiot. You’re so…” He nuzzled her hair. “Warm. Kind. Easy to talk to. Not to mention gorgeous and smart and so sexy you make my insides light up like fireflies.”
She leaned into his embrace. “You’re sweet, Matteo. But Jason’s not stupid so much as restless. And I played my part in our divorce too.”
“Well, I guess there’s always two sides.” He rested his cheek against her hair.
Would Jason have strayed in the first place if she’d been the woman Matteo thought she was? His job placed a lot of demands on him, leaving her to manage the kids’ schedules and all the daily crises that came with being a working parent. The last few years, she and Jason spent so little time together, the connection they once shared became thinner and more brittle, until it finally snapped.
In the back of her brain, she heard her book club friends exclaiming that nothing she did would’ve changed his lying, cheating, scumbag ways. But deep down, she had to wonder.
She nuzzled Matteo’s shoulder. “I’m still figuring it all out, and that’ll take a while. Which is why you came along at exactly the wrong time.”
She stilled, waiting for him to stiffen, to argue, but he just held her quietly. The gas fire flickered and danced. Overhead, a seagull cried. Another answered.
Finally, he squeezed her hand. “You want me to go?”
She closed her eyes and listened hard to her inner voice, the one she usually drowned out with dutiful busyness. She laced her fingers through his.
“No. I want you to stay.”