Chapter 17
Romeo
Father Flannery left an hour ago, laden down with more leftovers than one man could possibly eat. Lucia insisted on packing up half the kitchen for him, and he didn’t argue. He just muttered something about divine blessings coming in the form of Tupperware.
We’re currently shoulder to shoulder at the sink, finishing up the dishes before we head to bed. I’m washing, and Lucia is drying. There’s no music, no talking, just the rhythm of us moving around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“We make a good team,” Lucia suddenly says, but instead of answering, I clear my throat and don’t agree or disagree.
The problem is, she’s right; we do make a good team. Too good. We move around each other like it’s second nature, as if we’ve been doing it for years, instead of mere weeks.
To be honest, it spooks me. Things with her are too easy … too natural. I don’t know what to do with that kind of comfort, especially when I know there’s an expiration date hanging over us.
I’m used to doing life solo.
When the last dish is washed, dried, and put away, I turn towards Lucia. “Why don’t you head to bed?” I offer. “I’ll finish up in here.”
As if on cue, she yawns. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I mutter, a bit sharper than I meant to. I need a moment. Some space to wrestle down the panic that’s clawing its way up my chest.
“Are you okay?” she asks as she dries her hands and slides her wedding ring back on. She’s currently staring down at it as she waits for my answer, and there’s that fucking smile again.
“Yes.”
Her gaze shifts from her hand to my face. She studies me for a beat, and the corners of her mouth drop. “Are you sure? You don’t look okay.”
“Yes,” I repeat. “Today was just … a lot.”
“It’s been the best day,” she says gently. “The best day of my life.”
Her words stop me cold. “The best day of your life?”
She nods, her smile blooming again. “I married the man of my dreams. The man I love—”
“You don’t love me, Lucia.”
She pulls back like I struck her. The air shifts between us, thick and heavy, and her smile vanishes, replaced by something raw.
“What?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“You don’t love me,” I repeat, quieter this time. “Not really. You love the idea of me. You love the version you built in your head.”
Her brow furrows as her eyes search mine. “That’s not true.”
I shake my head, trying to steady my breathing. “You don’t know me, Lucia. Not all of me. You’ve only seen fragments, the parts I’ve allowed, but if you saw everything ...”
“I’d still love you,” she says, without hesitation.
Her words hit somewhere deep and unexpected. Why does my chest ache in the best possible way? And why is my head, against all logic, begging me to believe her?
She reaches out, her fingers threading gently through mine. “It’s okay, Romeo. You don’t have to love me back. Not now. But maybe one day, you will.”
I think I already do.
Her hand is soft around mine, grounding me. I should pull away and tell her not to wait, not to hope, but I don’t.
Instead, I stare at our hands, at the way hers fits so easily in mine, like it’s always belonged there.
“You deserve more than that,” I whisper. “More than someone who’s still figuring out how to feel.”
She smiles softly this time, without all the shine. “Maybe that’s true, but I’d still choose you anyway.”
And damn it, that hurts more than anything else ever has, because everything in me wants to choose her right back.
I’m dead on my feet by the time I head to bed. My head is so fucked up right now that I doubt I’ll get much sleep, despite being bone tired.
I pause for a second outside Lucia’s bedroom door. It’s her wedding night, and I sent her off to bed alone. She didn’t even fight me on it, which was a surprise.
She just pushed up onto the tips of her toes, placed a soft kiss on my cheek, and said, “Goodnight, Romeo,” before padding out of the kitchen without another word.
It left me feeling a little eerie. It’s unlike her not to bust my balls every chance she gets, but the way I was feeling in that moment, I’m kind of glad she didn’t. I feel emotionally spent.
I force my feet to keep moving before I do something stupid, like go into her room, climb in beside her, and say to hell with it all. Let’s give this a red-hot fucking crack and see where it leads us.
But I can’t do that.
I can’t knowingly give her false hope.
I’m in a daze when I enter my room and flick on the light.
I reach for the buttons on my dress shirt, popping them one by one.
Before shrugging it off, I slip off my watch and place it on the dresser.
My hand dives into the pocket of my trousers, fishing out the cufflinks I shoved in there earlier while washing the dishes.
The tie and jacket I wore to the ceremony are long gone. I hate ties. They always bring back school memories, where uniforms were mandatory and ties felt like a noose around my neck. I was constantly in detention for forgetting mine, or pretending to.
I drop my shirt into the dirty clothes basket in the corner of my room and grasp my belt buckle. Once my pants are off, I bury the heels of my palms into my eye sockets and blow out a long breath. This whole ordeal has given me a damn headache.
As I turn to switch off the light, I notice the small lump under the covers on my bed, and I do a double take.
My eyes move towards the headboard, and the long, dark hair that fans out against the white pillow is unmissable.
Fucking Lucia.
I stalk towards the bed, and without thinking, I yank back the covers, startling her out of a deep sleep.
“What the fuck,” I growl as her head snaps up and her squinting eyes meet mine. “Why are you in my bed?”
She takes a moment to adjust to the light before saying, “We had a deal, remember? It was one of my stipulations.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I groan, tilting my head towards the ceiling in frustration. Any sleep I hoped to get tonight just flew out the window.
“If I remember correctly, we agreed on occasionally.”
“Humour me, Romeo,” she deadpans, tugging the covers back over her body.
I don’t miss the barely-there black silk negligee she’s wearing, but the little minx was quick to hide it because I don’t doubt for a second she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“You need to go back to your own bed.”
“Not happening,” she says through a yawn, and burrows deeper into the mattress. “It’s my wedding night, and since there’s no cherry-popping happening, the least you can do is let me sleep next to my husband.”
Husband.
That’s a word I never thought would be used to describe me in this lifetime. Yet here I am, married, and apparently sharing a bed with a woman who has no intention of playing by the rules. In her defence, does she ever?
“Am I going to wake up in the middle of the night to find myself being violated by you again?”
“No,” she murmurs. “And we’ve been over this a million times. Let it go already.”
When she rolls over in a huff and gives me her back, effectively dismissing me, I know I’ve lost the fight. Short of physically carrying her back to her own room, there’s nothing more I can do.
And let’s be clear, I’m not going to touch her. Not when she’s wearing that scrap of silk, or when she smells as good as I know she does. Like coconut laced in sin, and everything I shouldn’t want. Especially when she’s already under my skin more than she should be.
So, I just stand there, staring at her silhouette for a moment before admitting defeat and switching off the light.
As soon as I make my way to my side of the bed and slip under the covers, she shimmies closer and drapes her arm around my waist.
“What are you doing?” I grumble.
“Snuggling was part of the deal too, Romeo.”
“Fuck my life,” I mumble under my breath.
“Goodnight, Mr De Luca,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder.
“Goodnight,” I growl as she shifts even closer, moulding the length of her body against mine.
“Goodnight, what?” she teases.
I know exactly where she’s going with this, but the first thing that comes to mind is, Goodnight, pain in my arse. But somehow, the words she wants slip out instead.
“Goodnight, Mrs De Luca.”
My back is to her, so I can’t see her face, but I somehow know she’s smiling.
I wake to find myself still in the safe house. A moment ago, I was somewhere else, stretched out on a tropical beach, cocktail in hand, palm trees swaying overhead. My wife was beside me, sun-kissed and smiling, wearing that bikini.
The barely there one that should be illegal in at least forty-seven countries.
The one she wore when I babysat her and Arabella while Dante was in Italy.
The one that showcases every glorious inch of her beautiful body.
The one that still haunts me to this fucking day.
Despite anticipating not getting any sleep last night, I slept like a damn baby. Better than I have in years.
Somewhere during the night, we must have changed positions, because Lucia is now wrapped tightly in my arms, and my rock-hard, aching cock is nestled against that tight arse of hers.
My face is buried in her coconut-scented hair. It’s probably the reason I had that dream in the first place. Makes sense. Even unconscious, my body seems to know exactly what kind of trouble this woman is. She’s like some angelic terrorist. A seductive temptress who is hellbent on wearing me down.
I suck in a sharp breath and hold it. I’m not game enough to move. I swear, if my dick gains any friction, I’m liable to do something that will only complicate this shitshow more.
This marriage must remain unconsummated.
It’s the only real option I have. As much as I’d like to fuck this woman out of my system, I can’t cross that line.
In the long run, staying strong will make things easier for both of us.
No blurred lines. No false hope. If we never go there, there’s nothing to untangle when this ends.
Because it will end.
And it’s imperative that she can walk away whole when it’s all said and done.