3. Another One Opens
Chapter 3
Another One Opens
Antonella
I stare at the computer screen as someone approaches in front of me. I’m putting in a mobile order—or trying to. Learning the ropes around here. Stupid system isn’t listening to a damn thing I’m telling it to do.
“Ugh.” I groan, seconds away from throwing it across the room.
“Issues, amore ?” The deep Italian accent. The nickname. He honestly gave me the nickname “love” thinking I don’t understand him.
I clear my throat and glance upward and stare directly into his forest green eyes. Oh, fuck me. Here he is, again. Standing in one of those expensive looking suits—probably costs more than the apartment I live in.
The white, faded scar on his face extends from his left eyebrow all the way down to his sharp jawline. What could’ve caused it? He looks devilishly handsome nonetheless.
I still want to lick it.
In my most professional customer service voice, I ask, “What can I get started for you?”
“Small cappuccino, please.” He raises a thick brow and looks down at the black barista apron I’m wearing. This thing tied around my waist does show off the good-ol’ hourglass figure.
“Three-fifty. Tap,” I state flatly, gazing down at the screen.
“I wasn’t aware you work here. I’ve never seen you behind the counter before.”
“You’ve seen me once. And it’s my first day— tap. ” I point down to the black box of hatred.
Please no issues .
Approved .
He smirks at me while I write his order on the cup. As I make the drink, even without looking at him, I know his eyes are strictly on me—no— burning through the back of my skull.
It’s hard to concentrate. To not mess up. What if I spill something and he’s staring at me? What if he laughs? I take a deep breath and continue to make the cappuccino. The way they showed me, but with a little twist.
“Lid?”
He shakes his head with a small smirk as he looks at the little design I made. A heart. I think it’s cute. He calls me amore, so I’ll give him a heart in his coffee.
“Why are you working here?”
I place his cup on the counter and jump in place, almost peeing my pants in front of him. Thank God I didn’t. “Holy shit, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” He smirks, taking the cup. Our fingers slightly graze, mine atop of his.
I’d say it’s a cliché, but I swear on Nonna’s grave, there’s a spark flowing through my body right now. An entirely different feeling than the one I get with Mr. Sullivan .
He clears his throat. “Your spaghetti is, as you said, to die for. I in fact did die and ascended to heaven. I can’t stop thinking about you. You absolute angel. Can I see you again?”
A pick up line? Lame.
I hum. “I’m off at noon today. I have another customer.” Ignoring his statement, I give an apologetic smile at the patient customer behind the olive-skinned Italian man.
“And then you’ll explain to me why you’re working here?”
“Sure.”
He turns and takes a seat at one of the tables. He pulls a black laptop out of his briefcase. Is he honestly going to stay here for a whole six hours?
Oddio .
I hang my barista apron back up on the hook in my locker and grab my purse off the shelf. He’s still here. So, he wants answers. Why does he care?
I move at a leisurely pace out of the backroom over to the table he’s at and sit in the chair across from him. We stare at each other—not saying anything for a moment. Is he waiting for me to say something first? I’m not going to. My heart climbs into my throat as his forest green eyes darken, the way his jawline tenses up as he clenches his jaw, and how his knuckles tighten against the arm of the chair while he grips it. I bite down onto my bottom lip as we continue this… staring contest.
“Hi, amore.” He chuckles, finally breaking our tense silence.
“Hi.”
“You going to start explaining now, or are you waiting for a formal invitation?”
I lift my chin. “Yes, actually. An invitation would’ve been more welcoming than the silence.”
“Apologies, amore. Please go ahead and start explaining to me why you’re working at this café all of a sudden?”
I shift around in my chair and cross one leg over the other, giggling at his demanding question. “You’re an insistent man. ”
I can’t tell where his pupils end and his iris’ begin. “You have no idea how insistent I can be when it comes to you.”
What an odd thing to say.
I swallow a large lump forming in my throat and fill my lungs full of air. Here goes nothing. “If you must know, I got laid off from my last job—company cutbacks and all. This is only part time, to hold me over until I can find another journalism job. I, in no way, shape, or form, have ever worked as a barista in my life. My apologies if your coffee was crap. I have absolutely zero experience. I suppose they're as desperate as I am. And not to mention the fact, I have a little left in my bank account to cover part of the rent.” I clear my throat. I’m talking way too much. I don’t, usually. “However, my stupid landlord keeps raising the rent because he’s a sleaze and pissed off because I won’t sleep with him and?—”
“Are you serious?” His jaw tightens, tensing in such a way that has me curious to how it’d feel to sit on it.
“Do you think I’d lie about this sort of thing?” I ask. Why would I? I don’t owe him anything. This mere conversation is another generous thing I’ve done for this man. Although, he is easy on the eyes. It’s not unbearable. “Of course I’m serious,” I whisper.
“When does your lease end?”
I peek down at my phone to check the date. “Three days.”
Oh, there it is. The familiar feeling dawning on me, settling in the deepest pits of my stomach. The overwhelming sense of dread.
Three days to make all of the money.
My fingers twist around the gold necklace I’m wearing—a family heirloom of eighteen karat different types of gold. Yellow, white, and rose golds, braid around each other. “I’ll probably have to pawn this. My nonna’s necklace…” I trail. Internally, I groan at the thought, and rub both sides of my temples. “A last resort, of course. She’s probably rolling in her grave right now. ”
Here I am, pouring my heart out to this gorgeous stranger. He has no reason to sit here and listen to me bitch and moan about my problems, and he probably has none at all.
“Stay with me.”
I blink profusely. A laugh catches in my throat, threatening to come out. What should I say? This is absolutely insane .
“You’re a stranger,” I state flatly. A grin twitches at my top lip. He’s certifiably crazy. “I don’t even know your name. You think I’m going to move out of my apartment and live with you?”
“Consider the I owe you repaid.” His voice is more confident than one should be. Oh, Hell. He’s serious.
“It’s a cup of coffee. For three dollars!” I snort. Thank goodness, I’m not drinking anything because it’d be all over him.
“This isn’t about the price. The gesture meant the world to me.” His eyes glint. “You didn’t have to step in and make up some excuse to make me come off better in front of other people. You didn’t have to pay for a drink that wasn’t yours with the last of your money. Let me do this for you. I’ll take good care of you, amore. You don’t need to worry about a single bill. You get to keep your necklace; it’s lovely on you.”
“I couldn’t possibly. It’s too much to ask for. And I still don’t know your name.” I give him a crooked grin.
“Il tuo futuro marito,” he says confidently. Then he winks at me— flirting .
I squint. My future husband, huh? Alright. I’ll play along.
He closes his laptop and gives me a full smile, one a God would be jealous of. He extends his ringless left hand out, flexing an expensive looking watch and those veiny forearms. I’m a sucker for the veins.
“Giordano Marzano.”
Hesitatingly, I shake his hand. Electricity sparks throughout my entire body from our point of contact. My gaze flicks down to my fingers. I quietly and confidently say, “Antonella Vitale. ”
“And just like that… we are no longer strangers, amore.” He winks at me, taking his hand back.
I shake my head with a beaming grin across my lips. “We are strangers. Knowing a name doesn’t make you any less… strange.”
He screwed up his face. “Strange?”
“I’m being rude.” I giggle, shaking my head. “Apologies.”
“None necessary, amore. Do you accept the offer?”
I meticulously rub the back of my other hand with my thumb, cracking a few knuckles. “We’re not… sharing a room, are we?”
“What?” He snorts. “I’m not creepy. I have a guest room you can stay in. As long as you wish.”
“Sorry to burst your ego, Giordano. It’s a little creepy, you have to admit. Inviting me to live in your home when the tiny detail you know about me is my name— and you trust me based solely on the fact I bought you a cup of coffee yesterday.” A small grin of satisfaction spreads across my lips. Not because I’ve given him a reason not to trust me. I’m being one-hundred percent honest. “And how you like my homemade sauce.”
His left eye twitches, yet he remains silent.
Okay, Antonella, when a devastatingly, too good to be true, handsome man asks you to live with him no strings attached, pay your bills, get you out of a shitty lease, do you ? —
A. Live with him?
Or B. Run for the hills and never look back?
In this economy? I’m definitely choosing option A.
I stare at his chiseled jaw for longer than I should’ve. How would it feel to sit on it? Would it hurt? I bet he knows how to eat . I blink, clearing my mind in attempts to focus on the real-life scenario unfolding in front of me. I’m a mess.
“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I’m not going to force you,” he says in a low, husky tone.
This might be a mistake. A big one, in fact. He’s handsome, charming, and kind. I’m going out on a limb here, because I’m in desperate need of a better living situation .
Could be worse, right?
“You know what? Fuck it. Let’s do it. I’ll move in with you,” I blurt out. “I’m going to end up on the street anyway, knowing I won’t make the rent this month. And I couldn’t possibly stoop as low as sleeping with Kevin .”
Saying his name sends icky shivers down my spine. I’m getting a shiver from Giordano, too. In fact, the opposite type of shiver. A sexy shiver. If the word shiver crosses my mind one more time—I’m going to have to deem myself a pirate. Shiver me timbers .
Damn it.
I shift my attention back to the generous man standing in front of me, giving him a small smile. A smile and a handshake? No. Don’t shake his hand. I move my hands to the seat, gripping onto the sides.
“You’re not sleeping with Kevin, amore,” the tone of his voice turns possessive. He slides a small card over to me on the café table.
“What’s this?” I cast my gaze downward at the business card.
“My name, address, and phone number. Put it in your phone, memorize it—as it’s your new address.” He tears a piece of blank notebook paper out of the journal and slides it toward me with a pen.
“What do you?—”
“Your address, amore. Where am I sending a moving truck? Do you need a storage unit?”
I shake my head as I write down the address. I fold the piece of paper back up and hand it to him. He tucks it in his inner suit coat pocket. Interesting place to keep something. “The furniture belongs to the apartment complex.”
“Che Cazzo?” He rises up to his feet.
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Prim and Proper . It’s this shocking? Ever met a poor person before?” Okay, time to give it up and tell him I’ve known what he’s said this entire time. Now, I’m offended. “I mean, yeah I’m broke . There’s no need to freak out about it.” I scoff. “Swearing up and down like that. Rude actually.” I grab the handle of my purse.
“You speak Italian?” He blinks, sitting back in the chair. Not as surprised as I was hoping he’d be.
“ Sì .” I laugh. Some part of me wanted to keep it a secret from him longer. To see how much he thought he could say without me knowing. But I didn’t. I can’t start—whatever this is we have going on between us—off with a lie . Because lying by omission is still lying.
“You know what I’ve been saying this entire time?” His facial expression remains unchanged as he puts his laptop in his briefcase.
“Sì.” I can’t contain my laughter. “Was my name not a dead giveaway?”
“I’ve met people with certain names who can’t speak their native tongue. So, no. I don’t assume based off a name.” He stands, holding his hand out for me to take.
“Valid.” I purse my lips together, taking his hand in mine as I stand next to him.
“Allow me to walk you back, then?”
“Do you have anywhere else to be? I don’t want to hold you up from—” I gesture to his business attire. “Whatever it is you have going on.”
“Walking you home is where I need to be.”
My heart flutters in my chest. Does he always know the right thing to say? “Well, this works out for you perfectly then, no?”
“Sì, amore.”