Chapter 21
ENZO
Lucy is adorable drunk, which isn’t a surprise, since she’s adorable doing anything, first and foremost giving me shit.
When I carry her to her bedroom, she snuggles in close, and an odd sensation unleashes inside my chest.
I can practically hear Aria saying, That’s your heart growing two sizes, you dipshit.
Nothing like a sibling to put you in your place—even if it’s just as an imagined voice in your head.
But I tell myself the sentiment is bullshit. My heart has nothing to do with this situation. I’m just feeling protective of Lucy because of what she told me.
She delivered the information about her mother so matter-of-factly, but I know a brave front when I see one. Lucy would say I’m a pompous asshole for thinking in such aggrandizing metaphors, but I created the brave front.
I know enough about Huntington’s to understand it wasn’t easy, what she went through with her mother. At the end, she must have been doing everything for her mom. Practically living at the hospital.
Which means this woman in my arms is stronger than I realized. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t run from challenges but toward them.
Like you.
“Uh, Lucy,” I say. “Where’s your bedroom?”
She’s out of it, but it would be impossible to get lost in a one-bedroom cottage, thankfully, so I find the bedroom and open the door. There’s an enormous king-size bed inside with a bright pink, heart-shaped headboard.
It’s a bit…tacky, and there’s nothing about Lucy that strikes me as tacky, but then again, she and Eileen are obsessed with all this matchmaking business. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.
I set her down on the mattress, and she surprises me again by tugging me down with her. “Lay with me,” she mumbles. “Just for a little while.”
Does she know she’s tormenting me? Probably. If she’s coherent enough, I’m guessing she’s glad for it.
Smiling to myself, I adjust the blankets and then tug them over her, tucking her in the way I used to tuck in my little siblings.
It feels nothing like that. Lie to everyone else, but not yourself. She’s unlocked something inside of you.
Then I lie down on top of the covers, facing her, and let myself wrap an arm around her.
“You’re so warm, Enzo,” she says, snuggling closer so her head is nestled against my chest, her hair tickling my nose.
“I’m glad I can be your space heater.”
“Why are you so handsome?”
I laugh a little—but only a little, because even though I’d never touch her when she’s like this, my body is reacting to her nearness. To the memory of what she tastes like and the throaty sounds she made when she came.
“It’s a question for the gods, Lucia. You might also ask why they chose to give you such luscious, ticklish hair. I’ll be waiting for their answer.”
“You’re very good at drawing,” she says. “I kept the flyer you drew. I couldn’t make myself throw it away. No one’s ever drawn me like that. Only those people at fairs who give everyone big bobbleheads.”
“A bobblehead of you would be a crime.”
She laughs, her body shaking against mine, making my need for her more powerful.
“You know what? I really, really want to see a bobblehead drawing of you. Do you think anyone does those here? Oh, why am I asking? It’s probably your uncle’s hairdresser’s driver or something, and you know all about it because you’re a Hidie. ”
“I don’t believe my uncle has a hairdresser. He’s as bald as a cue ball. But it’s kind of you to ask.”
She’s quiet for several minutes, her body still and warm against me. Then suddenly she asks, “Did you love her, Enzo? Rachelle, I mean.”
“No,” I say, stroking her arm, her hair. “She didn’t love me either. We weren’t good together.”
Rachelle had liked that my job involved firing people. Once, she’d asked me to talk about the people I’d let go that day as a kind of foreplay. It had made me sick.
“I shouldn’t have said anything to her that day,” she says softly. “She just seemed like she felt so left out. It’s awful to feel that way. But it sounds like she wasn’t very nice after all. I don’t know why men are drawn to women like that.”
“You haven’t been very nice to me,” I point out, despite the lump in my throat.
It’s the thought of Lucy feeling left out that’s affecting me.
Lucy, staying home to take care of her sick mother instead of acting like a twenty-year-old does.
“That’s probably the only reason you want to sleep with me,” she says dreamily.
“It’s definitely not the only reason, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Also because I’m a virgin.”
“That doesn’t make the list at all.”
She snorts. “As if. You never would have given me a second thought if you hadn’t seen that note.”
“That’s not true,” I argue, because it’s not. Sure, the note got my attention, but there’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed her. No man could work next door to her without being captivated, however reluctantly.
“That’s your story, but it isn’t mine.”
“Okay, Lucia.”
She nuzzles her head against my neck, and I thank God she doesn’t have her back to me. If she did, there’s no way she wouldn’t feel—
“You’re very hard. I can feel you. You know, I’m not really all that tipsy anymore. We could totally—”
“I’m getting up now,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“To take care of that?” she asks, interest flashing in her eyes as I climb out of the bed. Her gaze lingers on the bulge in my pants. “I mean, are you going to—”
“That’s between me and my dick. Sleep well.”
“You’re leaving,” she says, her mouth in a pout.
“You have your friend’s cat to keep watch over you.”
“You could sleep on the couch. It’s late.”
“Are you worried about me getting home safely?” I ask, amused by the thought. She’s right about one thing when it comes to Hideaway Harbor. It’s safe.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she says, with a strain of sadness in her voice that guaran-fucking-tees I won’t be leaving.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I assure her. “And I’ll teach you to make a real cappuccino in the morning.”
“Your grandmother already offered,” she says sleepily.
That captures my attention. My dick deflates, my chin tips up. “When’d she offer to do that?”
More importantly: why did she offer to do that?
“I’m very tired,” Lucy says, frowning. “But she came by yesterday. She wants Eileen to set you up with someone. I haven’t told Eileen yet.”
“Because you were jealous, Lucy?” I ask, needing to know. Maybe it’s not fair, trying to get her to talk now, while she’s still under the influence. But playing fair is for people who are okay with losing.
“Don’t you wish,” she says with a small smile. “No. I didn’t want some innocent woman to suffer.”
Ouch. But I did ask. I shouldn’t expect her opinion of me to have changed that much, and I can’t say she’s wrong about me. I have been rude. Overbearing. Manipulative.
All the attributes that made me good at my old job seem to have made me bad at connecting with people.
She makes a sweet sound and turns over, tucking her legs in. And the cat appears out of nowhere, in the way only felines can, and jumps onto the bed, nestling into her body.
Lucky bastard.
I go to leave and she mumbles, “Enzo?”
“Yes?” I ask, turning, my heart rate speeding up.
“Don’t draw a mustache on my face while I’m asleep.”
I smile to myself, because I’d forgotten my threat to retaliate with the marker. Who could remember a thing like that after what happened between us in Hidden Italy?
“We’ll see,” I say ominously, and with that, I leave the room.
A man like Hudson would settle onto the couch, pull that fuzzy, colorful blanket over him, and call it a night.
But Lucy’s held a monopoly over my mind for days, and now that I’m here in her home, I want to learn about her. I’d like to know everything.
So after I take care of my big problem in the bathroom—something else Hudson wouldn’t do—I give myself a tour of the cottage.
It’s cute, cozy, and full of bright colors, all of which I was expecting, but there are a few things I couldn’t have foreseen.
Namely, a collection of vintage salt and pepper shakers in the kitchen—enough to furnish dozens of diners—fifty cans of tinned sardines in the cabinet, an enormous oil painting of the cat she says isn’t hers, and in the living area, a wooden hutch housing a collection of taxidermied animals.
I scratch my head in stupefied disbelief as I study the squirrels, the walleyed rabbit that looks like it was scraped off the road, and a fox that resembles a chihuahua.
Did she…make these?
The thought doesn’t cohere at all with the Lucy I’ve been getting to know. It’s absolutely insane to think that she’d want to keep them, let alone make them herself, but here they are, sitting in a cupboard in her house.
Maybe she rents the place furnished?
Jesus Christ, I hope so. I mean, surely she must. She probably doesn’t even know about this cabinet of curiosities.
Or…maybe the collections belonged to her mother? People can be sentimental about some strange shit—Nonna still has the chicken bone that nearly killed Nonno, and would have if my father, in a rare act of heroism, hadn’t given him the hug of life.
I sit on the couch, my mind tripping over the closet of horrors, the sardines, and even that bed with the heart-shaped headboard. But my thoughts keep returning to Lucy, sleepy and pretty in her bed, telling me that she doesn’t want to be alone. Lucy, revealing what happened to her mother.
Lucy, who’s had as much fun with the hate-off as I have.
Presuming all this crap is hers, they’re pretty harmless eccentricities. I mean, lots of people like sardines, right? My grandmother eats them several times a week. Maybe they can bond over their love of disgusting canned fish.
Oh, what the fuck am I thinking? I shouldn’t want them to bond. The goal was and always has been to fix the problem with Hidden Italy, get my mojo back, and leave.
Sighing, I lean back on the velveteen couch, my gaze catching on a framed poster I hadn’t noticed before. It’s for Cats. Not the musical, but the CGI-packed live-action movie.
I don’t know…maybe she only likes it because she has a thing for cats? Lots of people like cats. Truth be told, I myself like cats.
I fall into a fitful sleep—and wake up with a start to the cat licking my face with its sandpaper tongue. My heart hammers as I take a second to orient myself.
Judging from the light that’s barely starting to seep through the windows, it’s early morning.
I pet the cat, then get to my feet and stretch, my back feeling the strain of spending all night on a couch too small for me.
“Lucy?” I call out.
She doesn’t answer, so I pour a glass of water for her in the kitchen—fuck, the glasses are Cats-themed too—and bring it to the bedroom to check on her.
The bed is empty, the covers rumpled. But the shower is running in the en suite bathroom. My gaze shoots to the door of the bathroom just as it opens and Lucy walks out…completely naked, her glorious hair gathered in a knot at the back of her neck.
She sees me and shrieks, her hands lifting to her breasts, hiding those pink nipples, then shifting down between her legs. But she does it with both of her arms, and it squeezes her breasts together, and oh God…
I force myself to look away.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “You scared me.”
So she doesn’t remember. How much doesn’t she remember?
“I took you home from the lobster trap tree lighting,” I say, peering intently at the window shades, which thankfully don’t have the logo for Cats painted onto them. “Don’t you want a towel?”
“I didn’t think you’d stay.”
I detect no movement in my peripheral vision. She’s still standing there, naked. Looking at me.
“You asked me to, so I did.”
“I did?” she asks, sounding so surprised I almost laugh. I would if she weren’t the greatest temptation of my life, standing almost within reach.
“You did.”
“I sort of remember that, but you didn’t stay in here,” she points out. “I thought you were gone.”
“I couldn’t take the torment of feeling you pressed against me all night.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her take a step toward me. Her voice husky, she says, “Would it be that miserable to be close to me?”
I risk a direct glance at her. God, she’s beautiful.
A few of her curls have sprung loose and are skimming over her breasts.
Now, unclothed before me, she looks even more like one of the Italian masters’ paintings—the kind of woman who makes you want to sink to your knees.
I’d like to gather her hair in my fist, to run my hands and lips over her from head to toe.
And I want, desperately, to sink into her.
“Yes,” I say.
Amusement passes over her face. “For all your big talk, you’re not very good at flirting.”
“It was an absolute torment because of how much I wanted to touch you. To kiss you. To explore every inch of you, Lucia. You make me crazy.”
“I was about to take a shower,” she says, her voice still low and breathy, the sound of it making my dick twitch. It’s already rock hard—and has been from the second I saw her.
“Are you inviting me to join you?” I ask.
She’s sober now, and if this is an invitation, there’s no world in which I’d turn her down.
Her response is to reach for my hand. “Yes. But I’ll write it on your forehead in Sharpie if you need me to.”
“That won’t be required.”
“This is only about sex,” she says. “We would never work.”
“I understand.”
I remind myself of the Cats memorabilia. The cabinet of horrors. Of my need to leave this place for good.
And I reach for her hand.