Chapter 15 #2
“No, they passed away young. I never met them, and my father left us when I was little.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, stroking her extended hand.
“A man who doesn’t take care of his family isn’t much of a man at all.
My grandmother taught me that.” I pause, weighing how much to tell her, but there’s a deep sadness on her face, an old grief that prompts me to be honest. “My own father wasn’t a family man, either, which was an unpleasant surprise for Nonna.
After my mother left, my father shut down.
He’d never bothered with us much, but he stopped trying entirely. ”
She looks surprised, and fuck, she’s right to be. I didn’t mean to tell her all that.
“I took care of my mother,” she says. “I dropped out of school to take care of her, but I finished my degree with online classes.”
I feel an uncomfortable sensation in my chest, as if my heart is trying to assert its existence and soften. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
She gives a short nod. “Yes, but it’s also the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m glad I got to advocate for her.”
Her words drill in deep, tapping into something inside of me. It hits me that my grandmother needs an advocate. She has my brothers, of course, but she might need all of us.
I tamp down the thought as she finishes a french fry. Looking at me contemplatively, she asks, “Did your grandmother take care of you, since your father didn’t?”
“Yes, but I took care of my brothers and sister a lot. We spent plenty of time here. Making sandwiches, stocking shelves, making orders for catering.”
“That’s a lot for a young person to shoulder.”
I can see her putting the pieces together in her head, forming a new image of me, painted with sympathy and understanding, and for some reason it aggravates me. “Family is important to me.”
“I know.”
“And this business is my family, Lucy. Blood, sweat, and tears.”
“So why don’t you like it?”
Her words feel like a slap to the face. “I never said I didn’t,” I say, sitting back. Whatever strange spell had been weaving us together feels like it’s unraveling. “I’d never say that. I didn’t leave because of Hidden Italy.”
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just something I picked up on.”
“Most people leave town after high school graduation. I’m hardly the only one who decided to move away. There are barely any jobs around here.”
I’m being defensive, but I don’t know how to stop. The thing is, I do hate Hidden Italy. It felt like a prison when I was younger. It still feels like one, its walls getting a little snugger with each passing day. I also love it and everything it represents.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. She finishes her drink before continuing. “And I’m sorry for earlier. I was a little prickly.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You mean you’re sorry for standing me up?”
“It was Harper who stood you up, wasn’t it?” she asks with a sly smile. “That’s too bad. Her brother’s really nice. I met her at Santa Speed Dating, and she seemed really nice too. I’m sure it was an innocent mistake.”
“I’ll bet. But I’m not going to tell you it’s too bad your date got interrupted. I was relieved.”
“Ex-cuse me?”
“You heard me. I don’t think you’d be a good match for someone who’s so polite. You enjoy arguing with me too much.”
She sniffs, getting to her feet. “Who says I enjoy it?”
“We both do.” I stand too, and she steps slightly closer, invading my space. Her coat’s still off, giving me a clear view of that pretty dress and the way it molds to her body. My blood heats instantly, every inch of my skin buzzing with awareness and need.
“You’re full of yourself,” she says, poking my chest.
“I don’t know how I could be with you working next door, constantly pointing out all of my flaws. Why don’t you take out that marker of yours so you can draw on me right now?”
She laughs and reaches down, pulling it out of her bag.
“Are you going to give me a mustache? Maybe a pustule or two?”
Her eyes are shining as she uncaps it and lifts it to my face, her fingers brushing my skin and sending sensation skating across it. But she frowns just before the marker makes contact. “I can’t. It would be like defacing the Mona Lisa.”
I laugh. “You think I look like a middle-aged Italian woman?”
“You know what I mean.” She crosses her arms over her chest, the marker still clutched in her hand. “You’re not going to force me to say it. Your ego is already overinflated.”
“And you just made it bigger. Would you like to give me any other compliments?”
Her forehead creases. The next thing I know she’s gliding the marker across my face, the tip cold and wet against my skin.
She starts laughing midway through her artistic experiment, which makes the marker wiggle against my skin. I don’t try to stop her. The other night it occurred to me that I’d like to make her smile—really smile—and it’s happening, as magical as if I’d made a wish on that damn bridge.
She finishes with a flourish of the marker.
“Did you just give me a mustache curl?” I ask, grinning. I probably look like an idiot, but it’s a dry-erase marker, so I can wash it off before I see anyone else.
“You look ridiculous,” she says, laughing as she caps the marker and tucks it away.
“Do you consider it your duty to humble me, Lucia? You’re doing a good job of it.”
She meets my eyes, hers sparkling with mischief, and laughs harder. “You made me do it.”
“Remind me never to take you to the Louvre. There are penalties for messing with the Mona Lisa, you know.”
She takes the marker out again, then tucks it into my shirt pocket and gives it a tap. It’s an expensive shirt, and red wouldn’t wash out, but I don’t have the slightest urge to stop her. The feeling of her hand against my chest is heaven. She lets it rest there, just over my pocket.
“I’ll let you retaliate,” she tells me, the moment taut and fall of promise.
“What if I draw something worse on your face?”
“You haven’t looked in a mirror yet.”
“Menacing,” I respond, smiling. “But no. I won’t retaliate yet. I want you to spend the next few days thinking about when it’ll happen. What it’ll be.”
“Please,” she scoffs, her eyes dancing with mirth. “I’m not going to lose any sleep over you.”
“Why shouldn’t you? I’ve lost lots of sleep over you.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t step back. “Why?” she asks after a moment. “You’re worried we’ll start selling sub sandwiches just to spite you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you, but no. That’s not why I haven’t been sleeping, Lucia. You know it’s not.”
“I don’t like you,” she insists, her palm still splayed over my heart. Her fingers are moving slightly, caressing me. Her voice is low and sultry.
“So you’ve said. And you’ve made it one hell of an up-and-down night. One minute, you’re standing me up, and the next you’ve got your hand all over my chest.”
She drops it the instant I point it out, and regret fills me.
“Now, I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.” I reach down and clasp her hand, lifting it back up to its previous spot. “I’ve always loved roller coasters.”
She smiles at me ruefully, caressing my chest—the heat and press of her hand almost enough to make me hard. “You mean you remove the stick up your ass to go on coasters? I don’t believe it. I—”
She cuts herself off as I tilt my head down to hers, our faces only inches apart now. Our breaths mingle as I stare into her eyes.
“You were saying, Lucia? What else is wrong with me?”
Her gaze holds mine for a long moment. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?” I reach up to weave my fingers through her soft curls, a sigh escaping me as their silkiness engulfs my fingers, even better than I’d imagined.
She lifts up a little on her feet, her lips so close to mine I can barely take the teasing. But still, I’m going to let her come to me. She has to be the one to close the final distance between us.
“Will you admit that you messed with the power in our building last weekend?” she asks.
I laugh. “I’ll tell you the truth if you’ll kiss me. Don’t you wonder what it would feel like? I know I do. That’s why I haven’t been sleeping. All night long, all I can think about is your smart mouth.”
Her response is to push up on her heels and press her pretty mouth to mine. Her lips are soft and luscious, and the moment she opens her mouth to me, I’m a goner.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’ve been a goner for days.
I grip her hair a little tighter, tilting her head to deepen the kiss as our tongues meet and do battle.
It’s like I thought it would be.
It’s also better.
I reach down without looking and sweep away the takeout container and empty drink can, which fall to the floor.
I don’t care. At this moment, I don’t care about anything but having my mouth on her and her sweet body pressed against mine.
Wrapping my hands around her hips, I back her up to the table and lift her onto it, my mouth still on hers.
She gasps into my mouth, and I swallow it. I nearly die when she opens her legs for me, inviting me to invade her space. Stepping in, I bend to her, kissing her harder, full of a deep, pulsing need that’s stolen what’s left of my sense.
I come undone when she wraps her legs around my waist. I’m already hard, so hard it hurts to feel the zipper of my dress pants pressing into my dick, and I roll my hips against her as I deepen our kiss. One of my hands finds her hair again and the other her hip, tugging her into me.
Oh, Christ, this feels good.
Then she pulls away panting, her lips dark pink from our kiss, her eyes full of surprise.
“It was good for you too.” It’s not a question. I fucking know it was.
She scrunches her face up in familiar annoyance, then presses a hand over her eyes. When she looks at me again, I can’t quite read her expression.
“The power,” she says. “Was it you?”
It takes me a second to register what she’s saying. To remember that English is a language I speak too, and I’m normally pretty good at it.
“Are you going to stop kissing me if I say yes?”