Chapter 8 #2
Refusing to look up, I stand dutifully at Pietro’s side and listen to him tell racing stories without being included once in the conversation.
Time ticks on and my stomach twists. I really am starving, but I don’t know how to untangle myself from my fiancé without angering him.
I press my clutch to my middle as if my purse can hold back the hunger and hope nobody can hear my stomach growling.
The ground seems to tilt under me. Instinctively, I grip Pietro’s forearm to steady myself.
He whips an irritated look at me and brushes my hand away.
Suddenly Marco is extricating himself from the conversation and leaving. I catch a flicker of a glance from him as he goes, and I’d be crestfallen if it didn’t mean I could eat now.
Glancing at Pietro, I hesitantly ask, “Do you want to get something to eat?”
He doesn’t look at me, just sips his wine. “It can wait. Ah, Bruce!” He lifts a hand in greeting to someone across the crowd and heads that way, leaving me once again alone.
Thank God.
I start edging my way toward the buffet when a familiar scent hits me, and I turn to find Marco at my side, his warmth radiating against my bare arm.
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly as he brushes past, handing me a plate of sliced fruits and cheeses and fancy little crab and caviar toasts and one-bite pastries. This man. I’m drooling.
Partially from the selection of food he’s brought me, but mostly, honestly, because of Marco himself.
Trying to hide my pleased smile, I stride to a quiet corner by some rose bushes and try not to slouch as I devour what’s on the plate, one well-mannered bite at a time.
It’s easy to subtly watch Marco as he moves around the gardens.
He’s just got this energy about him, his movements confident and easy, his laugh ringing out over the murmuring of the other guests, but not in a bad way.
He’s comfortable in his skin and it shows.
I wonder what it’d be like to attend an event like this on his arm.
I bet it wouldn’t be awkward or lonely at all.
Nibbling my snacks, I drift around the edges of the party, trying to look like I belong.
At some point Mercutio reappears, switching out my empty plate for a fresh one loaded with green Castelvetrano olives and panisses, both of which he knows are my favorite—panisses are kind of like French fries, except made of chickpeas—and pulling me back to Pietro’s side for another round of gladhanding and bullshitting and lots of racing talk.
No one is looking at me as I spot Marco weaving his way closer and closer.
“Juliet,” he whispers quietly before inserting himself in the conversation.
This is a difficult game. I want to smile and acknowledge his little teases, but I know I can’t. I don’t dare, especially not with Pietro mere centimeters away.
All too soon, Marco is gone again. That’s when Mercutio leans over and loudly says, “Karina, come with me. There are some people I’d love you to meet.”
My cousin doesn’t even acknowledge Pietro as he whisks me off, though my fiancé seems too engaged in talking investments to care one iota that I’m leaving his side.
“Thank you for stealing me away from certain death by boredom,” I tell Merc dryly.
“You hide it well, but I know better,” he says.
“So where are these people I’m supposed to meet?” I ask, glancing around.
He laughs. “They don’t exist. I needed to look for a young lady I met earlier, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to drag you away and give you at least a few minutes of peace.”
Before I can express my thanks, he’s disappeared. I wander over to a table loaded with glasses of wine and then feel someone come up behind me.
“Fancy bumping into you again,” he murmurs, not looking at me as he leans over to pick up a glass.
Looking pointedly away from him, I whisper, “Are you going to kiss me again?”
He inhales sharply, but I move away before this gets out of hand.
When I glance back at him over my shoulder, our eyes meet, and he nods toward the bathrooms outside the Bellanti tasting room, just on the other side of the gardens.
My heart pumps double time. I couldn’t possibly…
there’s no way I can get away with this… right?
Marco disappears and everything inside me longs to follow but I can’t bring myself to move. The punishment will be severe if my fiancé catches me. And yet. When I scan the guests for Pietro, I can’t even find him. Maybe I can be quick.
Finding some nerve, I make a casual loop around the partygoers and then stroll toward the ladies’ room. It’s been several minutes since Marco left, which makes me feel more confident that no one will put the pieces together.
A woman is just coming out as I enter. The bathroom is unbelievably elegant.
I step into a small seating area that has couches and lighted mirrors for women to chat and touch up their makeup.
Through an arched doorway is a room with a marble floor and an ornate, dark wood double vanity.
Past that is yet another room, where the toilets are.
There are two stalls, and their doors are carved wood to match the vanity.
There’s a huge chandelier overhead. Just wow.
Checking myself out in the mirror by the door, I barely have time to pat down my hair before the door opens again and Marco slips in.
He flips the lock on the door and grabs me, pulling me in for a breathless kiss.
Gripping the lapels of his jacket, I hang on as the sweet, sweet brain fog takes hold, his mouth working mine so softly, so expertly.
Time passes. Maybe one minute, maybe five. All I know is that I’m mid-whimper when the rattle of the doorknob makes me jump. Marco pulls back, flushed and bright-eyed.
“Meet me at midnight, in the noir vines of the vineyard,” he whispers, and then darts into a stall.
I wait until I hear the stall door shut and then unlock the main door with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. Force of habit!” I say breathlessly to the annoyed woman waiting there.
She smiles and waves me off. With that, I bustle away.
Smoothing my hands down my skirt, I return to the party to find Pietro, praying the scent of Marco’s cologne isn’t lingering on my dress.
I’m not worried about Marco.
I have a feeling he’s the kind of guy who knows how to not get caught.