Chapter 3
Romeo
“Fucking hell, Luc,” I mumble through a mouthful of food as I scoop an extra helping onto my plate before reaching for another slice of pizza to lap up the sauce. “This is so good.”
I wasn’t thrilled about missing out on my best friend’s wife’s cooking while being stuck here with her sister, but as it turns out, Lucia clearly inherited the same culinary magic.
Before Dante married Arabella, I wasn’t used to eating this well, not even close. My cooking skills barely cover the basics, which were self-taught out of necessity. My mother couldn’t put a meal together to save her life, unless it came out of a can.
Growing up, there were days when I was lucky to eat at all. The only time I remember getting three proper meals a day was during the handful of weeks I spent with my uncle and aunt. Even then, it was never anything like this.
“Thank you,” she replies as a sweet blush climbs her neck. “Save room for dessert.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth as I cock an eyebrow. “You made dessert too?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“What are we having?”
“Zabaglione with strawberries.”
“Yum. I haven’t had that since I was a kid.”
A small, wistful smile tugs on her pretty lips. “My mamma made that for us often when she was alive.”
“Huh, you’re lucky,” I scoff. “The only thing my mum ever fed me was out of a can … that’s if she even bothered to feed me at all.”
When Lucia’s mouth gapes open and her pretty brown eyes widen, I dip my face, staring down at the plate of food in front of me. I don’t even know why I told her that. Discussing my past is something I rarely do. It’s a part of my life I don’t like to revisit.
“Romeo,” she says gently, reaching across the table to wrap her dainty fingers over mine. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need or want your sympathy,” I grumble, snatching my hand away.
Her pity makes me feel like that scared and helpless kid again, and I hate that. I’ve worked hard over the years to let that person go.
She stares at me, blinking a few times before saying, “Okay, then.”
When she rises from the table a second later, taking her plate to the sink, I blow out a long breath.
The slump of her shoulders tells me I’ve hurt her, and I feel bad about that, but I can’t stand being pitied for what I went through growing up.
It leaves me feeling raw and exposed, as if everyone sees me as someone broken.
I may have clawed my way out of that shithole, but it didn’t ruin me.
If anything, it made me tougher. More resilient.
I lean back in my chair, quietly observing her as she rinses her plate and moves to the fridge to grab a covered glass bowl. She grabs a pot from the cupboard, places it on the stovetop, and flicks on one of the burners.
Her back remains to me as she scrapes the contents of the bowl into the pot to warm up what I presume is the custard, and a heavy weight settles on my chest as I watch her.
I don’t understand why everything this woman does turns me inside fucking out?
Sighing, I drop my hands into my lap, palms flat against my thighs, and rub them down the front of my trousers. Before I even realise what I’m doing, my mouth starts moving.
“My mother is addicted to prescription meds,” I admit quietly. “When I was a kid, I’d sometimes end up staying with my uncle—her brother—whenever she got locked up or was shacked up with some random guy who didn’t want a kid around. It was my aunt who used to make that dessert.”
Lucia glances over her shoulder, giving a slight nod, but her features remain stoic.
“I’m glad you had somewhere safe to go,” she replies before turning her attention back to the stove.
When I catch her swiping her finger under her eye a moment later, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I can count on one hand the number of people who have given a shit about me in my life, so seeing her reaction is unexpected and, dare I say, disarming.
It makes me want to lean in instead of pull away, even though every instinct within me screams not to do that.
Her eyes avoid mine when she places a small glass bowl down in front of me. “I hope it’s as good as your aunt’s,” she says.
“You’re not having any?” I ask when she retakes her seat.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Because of what I said?”
“No,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to mine for a split second before dropping again. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired. After I clean up, I’m going to shower and head to bed.”
I don’t buy it for a second, but I’m not about to call her out on it.
“If you want to head to bed now, I can tidy up in here,” I offer because I could use the space myself.
I’ve spent my life building walls to feel nothing, yet somehow, in just a matter of hours, she has everything inside me unravelling.
“It’s my job to clean up after you.”
I rear back slightly as tension flares in my jaw. “It’s not your job to do anything for me, Lucia,” I growl.
She shrinks a little in her seat and looks away. “It’s how I was raised,” she says softly.
“Hey, let’s get something straight.” I reach out, grasp her chin, and guide her face back to me. “You cook, I clean. Capire (Understand)?”
“In my world—”
“I live in your fucking world, Lucia, remember?” I cut her off, locking my eyes with hers. “If you cook, then I’m damn well going to pull my weight and clean up afterwards. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
When I let go of her chin, she nods and pushes back her chair. “I’m going to head to bed then.”
I don’t miss the shimmer in her eyes as she stands, or the way she keeps her face turned just enough to try and hide it. This softer, vulnerable side of Lucia Rossi is a total contrast to the spitfire I know her to be.
It’s a sight that tugs at my hardened heart, and for a split second, I’m tempted to reach out, pull her down onto my lap and hug the shit out of her.
But I don’t.
Instead, I sit there with my fists clenched, because if I touch her now—if I let myself cross that line—I’m not sure I’ll ever let go.
The moment I step into the kitchen the next morning and find Lucia cooking up a storm as she softly hums a song I don’t recognise, my eyes betray me.
They move slowly, drifting south along the curve of her spine towards that luscious, tight arse.
This woman is not just short; her whole frame is petite, almost delicate. Her sister is all curves, but Lucia’s slim body and height only seem to make her appear younger than her actual age of nineteen.
From behind, she could almost be mistaken for a fucking kid, which has all these unwanted thoughts I’m having of her make me feel sick and depraved … like a damn paedophile.
It’s another reason why I need to get this shit in check and stay the hell away. The things she makes me feel are maddening, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
She’s dressed casually today in dark, form-fitting jeans and a red top that clings in all the right places. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her feet are bare.
My gaze only lingers for a moment before I force my eyes away.
For one reckless second, I let myself believe this could be mine. Waking up to this woman, to mornings like this, as if it’s something real, something I could hold on to.
But I can’t.
Not with her.
Not in the world we live in.
I clear my throat as I lightly shake my head, trying to clear those misguided thoughts from my head.
“Morning,” I murmur, heading towards the table and dropping into a chair.
“Morning,” she replies, giving me a quick glance over her shoulder before turning back to the stove.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask because I didn’t.
After having a dream about my mum, or rather a nightmare, I tossed and turned for the rest of the night. This is why I hate reliving anything from my past; it brings up memories I buried a long time ago.
“Not too bad,” she replies. “You?”
“Okay,” I lie. “Do you need some help? Do you want me to set the table or something?”
She glances at me again, and there it is … that soft, sweet smile she once only seemed to reserve for me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it, and it does something to my chest, something I don’t want to name.
“Umm … sure,” she breathes, and I swear the sound of her sultry voice has my cock swelling in my pants.
I clear my throat, feeling instantly annoyed at myself and her. That fucking sweet side of this little temptress is my weakness.
After giving myself a moment—or rather, my dick—I stand abruptly and move about the kitchen searching for what I need. I slam cupboards and drawers as I go, trying to work this frustration out of my system, but it doesn’t work.
“You okay?” Lucia asks, obviously noticing the shift in my mood.
“I’m fine,” I grumble.
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and I’ve already run through every damn emotion known to man. If this keeps up, I’m going to lose my mind by the end of this fucking job.
By the time Lucia begins to lay out our breakfast feast on the table, I’ve calmed down somewhat. She’s baked a loaf of Brioche that she’s serving with butter and jam, a crostata tart filled with fruit, and has also added a platter of fresh-cut fruit and yogurt to the mix.
“This looks amazing,” I say, scooting my chair closer to the table.
“Thank you,” she replies, giving me another one of those damn smiles.
I wait until she takes her seat, and follow her lead as she starts to fill her plate.
“I was actually dreading spending time here with you,” I admit with a light laugh. “But if you keep feeding me like this, I may never want to leave.”
“Wow,” she says quietly, the word heavy with disbelief as she pushes back her chair.
She stands, grabs her plate, and walks to the sink, each movement stiff with unspoken hurt.
Here we go again. She’s misconstrued what I said. Or more specifically, what I meant.