Chapter Nineteen
Marina is an absolute vision.
A gorgeous, sexy, fantastical vision in a black one-piece jumpsuit that makes her look even taller, even more sensual than she already is.
Her hair is swept up, leaving her long neck exposed.
Thin silver hoops sparkle in her ears, and some sexy locks of hair escaping from the updo corkscrew along her neck.
She’s standing next to a long, black limousine and talking to someone I assume is the driver, judging by his black suit and hat.
She glances over and catches sight of me, and I swear to God, her entire face lights up. It’s an amazing feeling, and I can’t remember the last time somebody looked that happy to see me.
“ Bella ,” she says in that accent, and she reaches out her hands to me. “You look stunning.”
“I look underdressed,” I say with a chuckle. “Because oh my God, look at you. Look at you .”
She blushes prettily, but her hands tighten on mine. “Nonsense. You’re dressed perfectly.” She bends to lightly kiss my cheek, then leads me by the hand to the limo. “This is Jacob, our driver for tonight.”
Jacob gives a nod, then opens the door for us and we climb in. It’s roomy and wonderful and there’s a bottle of Champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Jacob shuts us in, and Marina pours two glasses as he gets into the driver’s seat.
“Marina,” I say, waiting until I have her attention. “What is all this?”
She shrugs, and for the first time since I laid eyes on her seems to falter for just a second. “I wanted to take you to dinner in style.”
I don’t want to embarrass her, so I don’t ask her how expensive a limo in Manhattan must be, and she seems to read my mind.
“Jacob is a friend and is doing me a favor,” she says with a grin. “Stop worrying.” She hands me a flute of golden bubbly Champagne, then touches hers to it, and it makes a lovely pinging sound. “To being with you,” she says simply, and it’s that simplicity that makes it so touching to me.
“You look beautiful,” I say to her, my voice soft.
“Thank you.” She’s just as quiet, and our eye contact is so hot right now, the inside of the limo feels electrically charged. I think we both notice it at the same time because we both grin, and then Marina leans in and kisses me softly on the mouth.
It’s been a little over four months since we’ve kissed, but it honestly feels like no time has passed at all.
I’m right back there, in that place where I’m trying hard to make myself believe there’s nothing solid here, it’s just fun, just a fling, something to occupy my time.
And just like before, I’m not truly convinced.
She sits back next to me and puts her hand casually on my thigh, as though we sit this way all the time. And it feels like we sit this way all the time.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, then nibbles on her bottom lip.
I nod slowly.
“I know.” Her sigh is soft as she glances down at her drink. “It would have been nice for you to know that.”
“Not gonna lie,” I say. “It would’ve.”
“I know. Of course. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t want her to spend our entire evening apologizing, but I have to admit, it’s nice to know she’s so contrite. “So, where are we having dinner?”
At the change in subject, she perks up. “It’s a small, out- of-the-way place called Antonio’s. Very, very authentic Roman food. The best I’ve had here.” She arches a dark brow. “So far.”
When we pull to a stop, I realize she isn’t kidding. We get out, and I have to search for the door to the restaurant—which makes me wonder why they don’t have better signage.
“I don’t see it, but I can certainly smell it.
” I sniff the air like a bloodhound, and the scents of tomato sauce and basil and oregano instantly propel me back to my suite in Hotel Cavatassi.
“If I close my eyes, I feel like I’m back standing at my open window in my hotel in Rome,” I say quietly.
When I open my eyes again, Marina is smiling at me.
“Good. I was hoping so.” She holds out her hand to me, and I take it. Hers is warm, soft, and strong as it closes around mine, and she leads me to a door that I didn’t realize was there.
Marina greets the host like they’re old friends, hugs and smiles and laughter.
I take the opportunity to look around. It’s a bit bigger than I expected from the outside.
Maybe fifteen or twenty tables, nearly all of them occupied.
The lighting is typically dim, and there’s a small bar to the right.
The quiet hum of hushed conversation serves as background music, and I’m instantly comfortable here.
The host—I wonder if it’s Antonio himself—leads us to a cozy table for two in a back corner, and it’s perfect.
Removed from the bustle, but we can still see everything.
We sit. “I might want to live here,” I say, and Marina laughs as a server fills our water glasses.
“I had a feeling you’d like it.”
“Seriously. If the food is half as good as the atmosphere, I might move in.”
“You’d better start packing your things, then.”
When our waiter arrives, he has an accent similar to Marina’s and soon, they’re bantering in Italian. She catches my eye. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I say, and it’s true. I love, love, love listening to her speak in her native language.
“I will translate for you.”
I wave her off. “No need. Just order me something delicious. I trust you.”
She holds my gaze for a moment as if my words hit her especially hard, but in a good way. Then she smiles and returns her attention to the waiter. They continue to banter, then he gives me a nod and takes his leave.
“He’s bringing us a Chianti. Also, what I like most about this place is their simple, traditional dishes.
You don’t have to go fancy or complicated to have amazing food.
So, I ordered us the lasagna, the penne with vodka sauce, and a side of their homemade meatballs, which are fantastic. Also, salad and bread, of course.”
I’m just looking at her, staring really. I can’t help it, she’s so goddamn beautiful.
She shakes her head with a grimace. “Is that not okay?”
“It’s perfect,” I say and reach across the table to grasp her hand in reassurance. She squeezes mine and doesn’t let go until the server brings a basket of warm bread and a saucer, into which he pours olive oil. We tear off bread, dip it in the oil, and holy mother of God, it’s delicious.
“Thank you for coming out with me.” Marina chews her bread. Her face has grown serious.
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad to be here.”
She holds my gaze for a moment before saying very quietly, “You must have been so angry with me.”
And here we go.
I take a moment, let myself settle, because the mention of the past four months has the effect of lighting up everything in my body, and not in a good way.
I inhale slowly through my nose and wait for my nervous system to calm before I speak.
“I was angry, yes. But more than that, I was hurt, and I was confused.”
She nods and rolls her lips in to bite down on them.
“I wanted us to talk, to figure out how and if we could find…” I sigh. “I don’t know what. Something. Anything. But when you agreed that we were casual, I started to accept maybe that’s what you wanted.”
“No, that’s what you wanted.” She’s not loud, but she’s firm when she says it. She glances at the table closest to us, surmises that the couple there is paying no attention to us, and repeats, “It’s what you wanted.”
She’s not wrong. “I know. It was. I insisted on that, but…” I lift one shoulder and pick up my wine. I look away from her. Her dark eyes are too intense right now.
She lets things sit for a moment, and the waiter arrives with our salads. She seems to study hers for a moment or two before glancing back up at me. Her eyes are wet, which makes my heart squeeze in my chest. “It wasn’t.” Two words. Two simple words that lodge a lump in my throat.
“Wasn’t what?” Yeah, I’m gonna make her spell it out. It’s the least she owes me.
“Casual. It wasn’t casual for me. It’s not casual for me.
” She picks up her wine, and her eyes don’t leave my face.
I can feel her gaze, even as I look everywhere but at her.
“Was it for you? Tell me the truth. Be honest with me and I will accept whatever you say. I promise.” Her words are firm, but when I return my gaze to her face, she looks terrified.
If it wasn’t such a serious moment, I might laugh.
Tell me the truth.
She’s not asking a lot, wanting the truth. Of course she isn’t. And I owe her nothing less than that, right? My heart is hammering in my chest now, I can feel it in my head. I clear my throat and glance down at my untouched salad for a beat before I whisper, “No.”
“No, it wasn’t casual or no, you won’t tell me the truth?”
I lift my gaze, wondering if she’s toying with me, but her face is open.
“No, it wasn’t casual.” I clear my throat again, because what the hell with the lump that won’t go away?
“It started out that way. It was my intention. It was what I wanted. Something fun. Something not serious. And it started out that way.”
Marina nods and sips, and the terror is gone from her expression now, replaced with something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“I honestly don’t know exactly when it changed for me, but it did. I didn’t even realize the extent until after I was home and had time to mull it all over, to replay everything in my mind.”
“And what was it that you realized? After the replaying?”
Goddamn, her questions are poignant.
I sit for a moment, not sure if admitting my true feelings will help or hurt. Will it mean happiness or disappointment? Why is being true to myself—out loud—so fucking daunting?