8. Rowan
ROWAN
I consider saying no, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s not like I have another class tonight. Other than Nugget, who’s probably happily snoozing on Larry’s lap right now, I have no reason to rush home. I find myself bobbing my head, grabbing my bag, and moving toward the door.
Samson looks almost surprised that I agreed to this, and watches me until I’m at the door. When he doesn’t say anything, I arch a brow. “Well? You chickening out again?”
He frowns and stalks toward me, looking fine as hell in those tight sweatpants and shirt. I want to peel him out of them, but I behave. I force my fingers to stay tightly gripped around the strap of my bag.
They twitch defiantly, desperate to disobey me.
“Where are we going?” I ask after locking the door and walking into the lobby. There are other teachers here today, but they’re all in class, so no one sees me leave with a student.
Not that he was a student before. He was just a guy watching me throw axes who did wonders with his fingers and tongue. Who found his way into a locked studio and drove me crazy before leaving me high and dry. Who later turned up at my apartment uninvited.
Samson’s fascinating. Every time I see him, a new layer to him is revealed. It has me wanting to peel more back. To see what lies at his core.
But those desires are for other people. Not me.
I can’t get close to anyone again. I won’t allow it.
It’s too dangerous.
“I know a place.” He parrots my own words back at me as we step outside, and despite the chill in the air, my cheeks heat.
Sadly, I don’t think the motel is what he has in mind for right now.
The only food available there is courtesy of the vending machines.
Given how some of the packaging inside has faded… I don’t think I’d risk it.
“Is it a fancy upscale one?” I ask, and then point to our outfits. “Because they might let you in looking like that, but they won’t let me in.”
His eyes rove slowly over me. “You look fine to me.”
I snort. “I do, but I also know this isn’t something you wear to the Gilded Cellar.”
“They’ll let you in if you’re with me, but that isn’t where we’re going.”
He turns and leads me down the street. The studio is located in the nicer part of St. Dismas, but as we walk, I realize we’re headed toward somewhere a little less so.
As we walk, the bag bounces against my thigh, and he reaches over and takes it from my shoulder, placing it over his. Doesn’t even ask, just does.
It should be ungentlemanly, but I like it.
“I could have carried that, but thank you,” I say, my chest fluttering slightly.
“No problem.”
I roll my lips between my teeth, peering over at him as he walks. He catches me looking and winks, making me slightly flustered.
“So, if we aren’t going to one of your fancy places, where are we going?”
“Somewhere off the beaten path.”
I glance down at the worn sidewalk and let out a laugh. “Literally.”
He grins at me, and I find myself flushing slightly.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me,” he says, and I snort at that.
“Am I though?”
“Yeah,” he says as he maneuvers me around an uneven piece of pavement. “You’re safe with me. And once you taste this food, you will never doubt me again.”
His fingers reach out and brush against mine, and I don’t pull away when he takes my hand in his.
I shouldn’t, but for some reason, I like the feeling of his palm against my own, how strong he is. So, I let him hold it as we cross a busy street and turn down an alley.
It’s then that I see it—a red awning and metal bars on the door. I see a flickering red sign.
Nonna’s.
“Here we are. You eaten here before?” he asks.
“Oh. No. Never heard of it.”
“It’s been here forever. Surprised you haven’t.”
He pulls the door open and ushers me inside. My eyes land on the outdated wallpaper first, and then the red checkered tablecloths.
Samson’s hand brushes against my lower back, and I step toward the counter, looking down at a handwritten menu and a sign taped next to it stating Cash Only.
Shit. “Um, I don’t have cash. Can we pop out to an ATM?”
“Don’t need it. We’ve helped Nonna out a few times. Everything we eat is free.”
My eyes widen at that as a younger woman comes out to the front, an apron on, her hair in a hairnet.
“Hey, Samson,” she says, giving him a large smile. “Been a while.”
“Been busy,” Samson replies.
“Well, Nonna will want to see you. She’s in the back, working. You’re lucky it’s not rush hour, or she wouldn’t be able to come out and say hello.”
“Fuck that. She needs to retire.”
“She’ll murder you if she hears you say that.”
Samson laughs, and god, the way he lights up. I want to make him do it again. But that’s the kind of thinking that blurs lines and leads to pain. Instead, I force my gaze away from him, looking at the menu.
“I’ll get my regular,” Samson says, and the girl nods, writing his order down on a piece of paper before turning her gaze to me.
“And you?”
“Oh, umm…what do you recommend?”
She shrugs. “It’s all good, to be honest. Nonna prides herself on her cooking.”
I peer over at Samson, and he points to a dish. “Penne ala vodka. Not too heavy, but good for refueling.” He turns back to the girl, smiling like he’s proud. “He’s a dancer.”
Her lips form a small O, and she bobs her head, her reaction making me blush. “I knew I recognized you. I’ve seen you on the posters around town.”
“He’s the lead,” Samson says. Is he…bragging? That thought has my stomach doing pirouettes. “Going to blow them all away come opening night.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t know that.”
He frowns. “I do know. I’ve seen you dance.”
“You’ve seen me teach,” I correct him. “It’s not the same.”
Samson opens his mouth but quickly closes it before offering me a strained smile. “Guess you’re right.”
Our waitress taps her pen on the pad. “Either way, Nonna will be so pleased to have someone famous here.”
Samson raises an eyebrow. “Tell Nonna I’m famous too.”
“She doesn’t think so.”
That makes me laugh, and I watch as she rips the piece of paper from the notepad and waves it around. “I’ll give it to Nonna, and I’ll bring you some grappa and water while you wait.”
As she disappears through a swinging door, I turn my attention to the black-and-white photos lining the walls. All of them feature the same woman, just at different ages.
“Is this Nonna?” I gesture at the photos.
Samson smiles at them almost fondly. “Yep.”
“What did you do for her that the food is free?”
“Paid off some debt.”
Not the answer I expected. Although, I don’t know what answer I was expecting. “That’s amazing. I didn’t know that the Buckinghams did that.”
“They didn’t. I did.”
I feel my cheeks warm, and I nod, my fingers fiddling with the silverware. “That was very generous of you.”
His gaze bores into mine, and I turn away slightly, needing a moment to breathe. And as I do, I see an older woman—the same one from the photographs—make her way toward us, wiping her hands on her white apron.
Then she reaches out and touches Samson’s cheeks. “Tesoro. Too long. My heart has been sad without you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. Caught up with work. A lot has happened in the past few months.”
She tuts. “Busy, everyone is always busy, but you are here now, so this is good. And I have improved my spaghetti recipe. You will like it.”
Samson looks scandalized. “Nonsense. It was perfect to begin with.”
She ignores his comment, turning her smile on me. “And who is this? You never bring anyone. Not once.”
That makes my chest squeeze slightly, and Samson’s cheeks redden.
Nonna clucks her tongue. “Your name, cara?”
“Rowan,” I say, and hold out my hand to shake hers, but she just leans down and air kisses both of my cheeks.
As she does that, the waitress from earlier brings out glasses of water and a bottle of alcohol.
“Good, good. Now I wanted Samson to marry Carmela here, but—” Nonna shrugs. “—he does not like women.”
It’s my turn for my lips to form that small O.
“He did not know this?” Nonna points at me while looking at Samson.
“Oh, he knows it.” Samson eyes me hungrily, far too much so given we have an audience. A very keen audience.
Carmela blushes, and so do I, Nonna looking smug. I drink my water aggressively, almost spilling it down my shirt.
“Bene, bene. I will let you two piccioncini get back to flirting and I will make your food before you both waste away.” She pinches both of our cheeks then turns around, disappearing back into the kitchen in a flutter of movement.
We watch her go, and then our eyes meet once more.
I clear my throat, trying to gather myself. “Well, I think I’m going to be very impressed with Nonna’s food.”
“You will be. Trust me.”
I realize, in some weird, twisted way, I do trust him. At least not to harm me.
My heart, on the other hand…that I’m not so sure about.
You have to let him in first. There’s no danger of that happening.
“Here, drink,” Samson says, pouring me a small shot of grappa. I take it between my fingers and throw it back, the liquid burning my throat as I swallow.
“Shit,” I cough. “That’s a lot.”
“The alcohol isn’t the only thing at this table that’s a lot.” There’s a gleam in Samson’s eye as he knocks back his own shot. “Good thing I’m built for it.”
I’m pretty sure I need to be rolled out of the restaurant.
Not that I’m drunk. No, Samson allowed me one more grappa before cutting me off.
He, however, had several more as we dug into our food.
You wouldn’t know it. I get the feeling it’d take a lot more than a few glasses of grappa to get Samson intoxicated.
When he said it would be good, he meant it.
It was the best Italian food I’ve ever had.
And there was so much of it. I’ll have leftovers for at least two days.
When Nonna said she was concerned about me wasting away, she wasn’t kidding.
The to-go bag she forced into my hands before we left has not only my leftovers—Samson ate his entire plate—but garlic bread and two cannoli as well.
I don’t know if I’ll ever physically recover from this.