Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WORTHY OF LOVE
PAST
Meet me where we had our first date.
I roll my eyes at the message that I received last night, pulling at the thighs of my striped high waist pants that accentuate my long legs. I used to hate being so long, towering over the boys at school.
And then womanhood transformed my shape and I decided to be a fucking goddess instead of the giant the boys used to call me. Maybe I am still a giant to them. But I’ve always looked at it as, if my height bothers them, they’ve probably got a little dick anyway.
I approach the cinema, fidgeting slightly when I see him standing outside, his eyes on his phone. I shove my own phone into my bag and shake my hands to get rid of my nerves just as he glances up, catching the movement with those dark glittering eyes of his.
“You don’t need to be nervous,” he calls out, tucking his phone into his pocket. I admire the way he wears casual wear, the navy polo fitting him in a way that shows his physique underneath. Abraham isn’t a bulky man but the appearance of his chest under the fabric of his shirt suggests that he’s in amazing shape. I stop myself from checking out his bare arms, feeling his stare and not wanting to be caught ogling.
But he doesn’t give a fuck about being caught as his eyes scan me from head to toe. When his perusal pauses at the inch of bare skin showing between my waistband and tank top, I tilt my head to the side.
“I like when you look like this,” he supplies, his perusal moving to my hair. It’d taken me about an hour to curl it just to my liking.
“Like what?” I ask, curious as I stare into his eyes, wanting to catch every shift and flicker of meaning.
“Like you know you’re going to see me.”
“I see you three times a week,” I remind him, not wanting to share that I take a little more care with my appearance on those days.
“And tonight, you dressed for only me.”
He extends his hand and I shake my head, unable to commit to placing my hand in his.
“I don’t do public displays of affection,” I tell him, glancing down the other end of the street. “And what if someone sees us?”
Add in the fact that I’m not entirely sure what it is we’re doing here, and I refuse to have my head scrambled by some innocent handholding. I’ve given into temptation; I haven’t lost my fucking mind.
“How many people in this city know I am your professor? Or even care?” But he’s dropped his hand and gestures with it for me to walk with him.
“You should care more about your reputation,” I chide him, looking up for a moment and taking a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m here with him. And I can’t believe I’m the only one who understand the full gravity of this. He could lose his job. Not that he needs the money, I’m sure. But he is a well-respected director outside of this gig. He doesn’t need a scandal to taint his image. And I don’t need to lose the trajectory of my own future for a seemingly fleeting attraction.
“I think you care too much,” is all he says in response and I peer over at him for a moment, catching the end of his shrug. Is he like this with others? Certainly not in the classroom setting. But I wonder if his previous conquests have seen this version of him: without the crease of frustration between his brows, his features relaxed, his lips slightly parted as we walk.
“We can agree to disagree,” I tell him, still keeping in step with him. “Where are we going?” The cinema is long forgotten behind us and we’re headed in a direction I’ve never been before.
“If it’s privacy you crave, I can think of no better location than my apartment.”
Can I handle privacy with Professor Pugliesi? If I’m being honest, it seems like Abraham and Professor Pugliesi are two completely different people. And it makes me wonder what Abraham Pugliesi is like as a director.
“How are you in a typical work environment?” I ask as if I’m trying to pass the time. Really, I just want to know him. “I mean, on set. Not in the classroom because if we’re being honest, your classroom etiquette leaves much to be desired.” He’s chuckling by the end of my sentence and I begin to relax in his presence.
“I’ve had actors love me and some hate me.” There’s that shrug that screams nonchalance again. “I suppose it depends on who you ask.”
The back of his hand brushes against mine and I try not to react as he steps behind me, grabbing hold of my elbow. My heart pitter patters at the way I allow him to take control, even in the most mundane of situations.
He leads me across the street and stops in front of a bodega . I learned that anything resembling a convenience store is called that in this city and I press my lips together as I wait for what comes next.
“Come on,” he says, reaching in his pocket for a loose key that he pulls out with a smile. He steps to the door just next to the store’s entrance and I watch as he unlocks it before holding it open for me to duck inside.
Surely he doesn’t live here .
When I hesitate, he smiles and it’s a sight to behold. I haven’t seen an open smile from him since the night we met. Sexy grins and wicked little chuckles are all I’ve been graced with in the time since then.
“You’re going to have to learn to trust me, Sabrina,” he lilts, still holding the door open. “You’re also going to have to hurry. I’m certain our food is getting cold.”
I huff out a breath and step forward, stopping short just inside when I see there’s only a set of stairs leading up to a door. Abraham is right behind me, and before I can overthink it, I start to walk up the steps, desperate to put some space between us.
Being here, in this hallway, alone with him, reminds me that I have no real idea what I’m doing here, aside from satisfying a curiosity. Or perhaps I just like being wanted. And now I want to see what it’s like to be devoured.
“Excuse me,” he says as he reaches around me, pushing a key into the lock of the door at the top of the steps. He holds this one open too and when I step inside, I don’t expect it to look like it does.
Eclectic and full of life; plants everywhere and the smell of food and some kind of masculine scent joining together to remind me that a grown ass man indeed lives here.
“What do you think?” he asks, setting his key on the small table next to the door before he closes it. And now we’re completely alone.
I swallow before I speak, reminding myself that I agreed to be here. And that I’m a grown woman who can handle whatever comes of this. Even if it’s nothing. Especially if it’s nothing.
“I like it,” I answer, turning through the space and admiring what appears to be the living room. “You must have a green thumb.” It would be impossible not to, with the number of plants covering most surfaces.
“Ah, yes,” he answers, and I face him to catch sight of his distant smile, his gaze unfocused. “One of the only things I got from my mother.”
This is the first mention of anything deeply personal from the once Italian man before me and I bask in the intimacy of it. But I know what it’s like to have a complicated history with family so I don’t ask anything further, opting instead to glance at the set table a few feet away.
“You mentioned food…” I start, and he nods, walking toward one of the chairs.
“Yes, yes. Come, sit, eat.”
When I approach, he rushes to the other side and pulls my chair out. I glance down at the table and grin at the lasagna, salad, and bread that waits for us.
“You made this?” My words are an octave higher than I anticipated, but Abraham just chuckles as I sit.
“I told you I’m Italian. Food is my love language.”
“And what is it you’re trying to say?” I peer up from where I’m seated, unable to fight the smile on my face.
“Let the food do the talking, Stellina .”
I almost ask him what that word means but he’s pouring me a glass of chianti and I’m so swept up in the effort this must have taken.
When he’s settled in his seat and we’ve started our salads, I finally ask the question I’ve been thinking of for weeks.
“What made you change your mind?”
“What do you mean?” He sets his fork down and leans forward, placing his chin on his joined hands, his elbows propped up on the table .
“You can continue eating,” I reassure him, continuing to stab at my salad, unable to sustain direct eye contact.
“Are you uncomfortable with my undivided attention?”
This makes me glance up at him before returning my focus to my food.
“What made you decide to stop being an asshole to me?” I ask instead of answering his question. I hate lying, but I refuse to share just how much he gets to me.
Another shrug from him before he answers, placing his palms on the table.
“I could either make both of our lives hell, remove you from my class, or see if the attraction I felt that night was real.”
“You’ve been attracted to others,” I remind him before taking a bite of my salad.
“Ah, the incident in my office,” he nods, watching the fork slide from between my lips. “There will always be young women with Hollywood dreams willing to fuck me for a chance. Even when I inform them that I don’t cast with my cock.”
“Don’t sound so crass.” I don’t like how it makes me feel.
“If you’d like me to apologize for being a pig, I will,” he offers, holding his hands out. Always speaking with his hands.
“Only if it means you won’t act like a pig ever again,” I muse aloud.
“If it keeps you here, I promise.”
He holds up his hands to his chest, and I grin, unable to maintain my serious expression.
“I can’t hate you for the person you were before me.”
“Can I like you for the person you were before me? Because the woman who chose to go to the movies, even though her date stood her up…I want to like that woman. I want to know her very much.”
This powerful man, who’s worked with some of the most beautiful women in the world, who’s shared space with gorgeous models and has been connected to some of the most influential people in the world…he cooked me dinner.
He asks me questions and stares at me like he doesn’t want to miss a word I say. And maybe this is love-bombing, and he just wants to fuck me. Maybe this means nothing to him, but I tuck the experience somewhere deep inside of me.
The way he looks at me, the scent of the room, the warmth of the wine and the eagerness of his words.
It’s like I want to capture moments, romantic little footnotes that will remind me that I’m worthy of love, should I ever forget it.