Chapter 24 Jennifer #2
"What's the recipe," I say.
"Tiramisu," he says. "My grandmother's."
"Your grandmother's tiramisu," I say.
"She was from Naples," he says. "It's the real thing, because it takes three hours and requires a specific type of biscuit that Carmen had to order from the mainland."
I look at him for a moment.
"But how did you know I would come to lunch, let alone stay for dinner?"
My strawberry scent opens fully in the warm air.
I feel all three of them respond to it, their scents shifting warm and open in the air around mine.
"Does your grandmother's tiramisu actually take three hours," I say.
"Every minute," Santos says. "You can't rush it."
"You said she'd know," I say.
"She would know immediately," he says. "She always knew."
I pick up my fork and eat the last bite of my pasta and put it down and look at the water through the window, doing its gold September thing, and the afternoon light on the table.
"I'll need to call Anna," I say. "My sister, and tell her I'll be there tomorrow and not today if I stay."
Santos smiles. "We won't hold you captive. Whenever you want to leave, just say the word."
I remember Anna's words about telling them and then giving them a chance to respond. I can't tell them hey, I'm having your baby, and then get on a boat.
There's no Chiara now, just us, so I need to tell them, but this is the first time we've really had a real conversation, so I'll do it, but not yet.
Tomas turns his hand on the table, palm up, just resting there, and I look at it for a moment and then I put my hand in his and he closes his fingers around mine with the quiet deliberate warmth of a man who has decided something in a library in the rain and has not reconsidered it once.
"Call Anna," he says.
Santos looks at me with his warm brown eyes and his saffron sitting bright and warm in the kitchen air and he says, very quietly, "Stay, principessa. Not just tonight, but give us a chance to court you, look after you."
He said it without decoration, and the Italian in it, the way the word sits in his mouth, does the thing it always does, moves through me like warm water and my rose scent floods the room so softly and so completely that I hear all three of them breathe in at the same time.
My omega says nothing.
She doesn't need to.
"Tell me about these biscuits," I say. "The specific ones from the mainland."
Santos sits back in his chair and a smile breaks across his face, the real one, the one that takes over entirely, warm and wide and slightly undone, and his saffron floods the room warm and open and certain.
"Savoiardi," he says. "Lady fingers. My grandmother drove forty minutes to the specific shop that made them because she said the supermarket ones were an insult to the concept." He leans forward again. "I had Carmen find the same shop. They shipped this morning."
"You really need to give Carmen a raise for all of this. I'm sure as island manager this isn't in her job description," I say.
"Noted," he says, and writes something in his notebook.
I can barely breathe as my eyes widen and for some reason I start to shake and sweat.
Oh no, not again.
"Jennifer," Santos says.
"I'm good,” I say.
"Your scent," he says, gently.
"It's just warm in here."
"It's not warm in here," Tomas says.
The three of them exchange the look, the one that has a whole conversation in it that takes approximately three seconds and requires no words, and then they all look back at me, and I grip the edge of the table with both hands.
"Jennifer," Matteo says, quietly.
"I'm aware," I say.
"I know you are," he says. "We're not going anywhere."
"This isn't heat," Tomas says quietly, from my left. "Your rose is soft. Heat makes it sharp." He looks at me directly. "This is something else entirely."
Santos's hand covers mine on the table. Warm and broad, his thumb moving once across my knuckles, and the saffron in his scent wraps around my strawberry and my rose and settles there, certain and warm, and I breathe through it and let it settle and look at all three of them.
"The tiramisu," I say.
"After," Santos says, and his voice is low and gentle and entirely without urgency.
My omega is making absolutely no effort to conceal her feelings about the situation.
I push my chair back and stand up, and three pairs of eyes follow me, and I smooth my green shirt down over my stomach with both hands, the gesture I make when I want my hands somewhere, and I look at all three of them one more time.
"I'm calling Anna," I say. "Then tiramisu."
"Let us come with you. I want to make sure you get to the guest house safely. You don't look well," Santos says.
"I'm fine," I say. Then I swiftly make it out of there. I can't even thank them. My throat is dry and my head is pounding. All signs that I'm going into heat, but I can't be, because I just had pre-heat.
In the corridor I lean against the wall for one moment with my hand over my stomach and my rose scent soft and warm in the air and my strawberry doing whatever it wants, which is what it has been doing since the moment I walked through that door.
She kicks. Vivid and certain and entirely unbothered, the kick of someone who has been waiting for me to catch up and is pleased that I finally have.
"I know," I tell her.
I can smell their scents behind me. I told them I could make it, but they still followed me, clearly to make sure I got back safely.
Once I'm in, I don't hesitate in shutting the door and calling Anna.
"Well?" she says.
"They made pasta," I say.
A pause.
"And?" she says.
"There's tiramisu," I say. "His grandmother's recipe. The boat is at four."
"Jennifer," she says.
"I'm staying for tiramisu," I say.
She loses it. The real laugh, the one from the chest, the one that takes over. "Obviously you're staying for tiramisu," she says. "Obviously. You were always staying."
"I hadn't decided," I say.
"Call me after the tiramisu. If you can, and you've actually told them. If all goes well, which I'm sure it will, then I need to figure out how to get on that island," Anna says.
"I will," I say.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you too," I say. "Even though you're insufferable."
"Oui," she says, and hangs up.
I take a few deep breaths then head back to the kitchen where Santos is already at the stove and Matteo has his notebook open and Tomas is reading the label on the biscuit tin with the focused attention of a man who takes ingredient lists seriously.
"Well?" Santos says, turning around.
"The boat's at four," I say.
His face falls.
"And I'm not on it," I say.
The saffron in the room goes warm and wide and open and Santos puts the wooden spoon down and looks at me with those warm brown eyes and says something in Italian that I don't ask him to translate because the way he says it tells me everything I need to know.
Tomas puts the biscuit tin down and looks at me over his glasses.
Matteo says nothing, and the almost-smile does what it does, brief and real and entirely his, and I feel it in my chest and I let myself feel it and I don't look away from it.
"Tiramisu," I say.
"Tiramisu," Santos says, and picks up the wooden spoon.
As I sit and watch him in the kitchen, for the first time since we've been on this island, my strawberry and rose sit warm and open in the air and don't apologize for staying or making an effort.
Neither do I.