Chapter 5 Emi
FIVE
EMI
“Emi, where are you going?”
Shit. I was hoping my dad would still be in his office and I’d be able to slip out unnoticed.
Instead, he’s in the breakfast nook eating a grilled chicken salad; a salad he finds to be personally offensive, if the disgruntled twist of his mouth is any clue.
It’s nothing new. Since his heart attack a year and a half ago, he’s made his resentment of his overhauled diet well-known, but I don’t care.
He can pout all he wants as long as he stays away from all the pasta, rich meats, and oil-drenched bread that put him in that hospital room and nearly made me an orphan in the process.
Popping my phone and lipstick into my black clutch, I smile and try for a casual tone. “Just out with a friend, Daddy, it’s no big deal.”
His rapier gaze takes in my appearance before he raises his famous dubious brow.
Okay, so I don’t exactly look like I’m about to meet Graham, one of my instructors and friends, for a non-fat latte at the nearest Starbucks.
If that were the case, I’d be in yoga pants and a comfy top with my hair in a messy bun and no makeup.
As it is, I’m wearing a little black dress, heels, and gave myself a blowout and a smoky eye.
I’m trying to at least appear like I belong with a hot-as-hell guy like Austin. Sue me.
The look I’m getting from the all-knowing Vincenzo DeLuca is that he knows I’m full of shit but is choosing to remain silent because it doesn’t need to be said.
Which is to say, he doesn’t approve of my “friend” date.
And to underscore this fact, he brings up the one thing that’s sure to put me in a sour mood.
“I have good news about Marco.”
Marco Moretti: only son of my father’s oldest friend, my childhood playmate turned tall-dark-and-handsome CEO-in-training…and my betrothed.
I mentally wince every time I think of the B word. Who knew arranged marriages were still a thing well into the 21st century? Although, I suppose “arranged” isn’t exactly accurate. More like emotionally coerced.
“His father tells me he will be back in Chicago at the end of July.”
End of July? I thought I had longer. His paid internship at the Italy branch of my father’s company wasn’t scheduled to end until September.
“Why is he coming back so early?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
Dad sits back and picks up his glass of red wine—one of his habits that he’d been allowed to keep once daily—and waves dismissively with the hand holding his fork. “Everything is fine. In fact, he has excelled in the program. There is nothing more he can learn there that he cannot learn here.”
“That’s great, Daddy. I’m not surprised, he’s a smart man.”
“Sì, he will make a good husband for you. I cannot wait to finally see the two of you joined together, piccola principessa.”
Little princess. The smile on his face and his childhood endearment for me is made of the stuff that sealed my fate.
I love my father with all my heart, and when I thought I was going to lose him…
God. Blips from the ambulance ride and those awful hours in the hospital hit me.
Residual fear still rises whenever I think about it.
I’d do anything to make him happy and free of the stress the doctors warned could bring on another heart attack.
Even agree to marry a man whom I love as a friend with the hope that I can grow to be in love with him someday.
After all, it’s not exactly like I have a ton of other prospects—I’ve had zero luck in the relationship department—and Marco is an amazing man who’s had feelings for me since we were seventeen.
A life with him won’t be anywhere near horrible.
But it also won’t be the fairytale I’d always hoped for; the kind my parents had and the kind my father used to want for me before he decided he needed to write my happy ending for me.
I shake off my concerns and give myself permission to worry about that later.
My father has agreed to not pressure me about starting a “relationship” with Marco until he returns.
That means I have—I do the math in my head—eleven weeks, give or take, to be single and sow my wild oats.
Not that I’d planned on doing any sowing, but that was before my world was turned upside down by an insistent man with golden-blond hair and light green eyes.
“Emi, did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, yes, I did. You’re right, that’s great news. I look forward to seeing him,” I say with a smile like the dutiful daughter I am. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“No,” he says gruffly. The reminder I’m going out has made him surly again. “Do not stay out too late. There is no reason to be out at all hours of the night.”
Loosely translated that means “don’t go having an adult slumber party with your so-called friend.” Apparently agreeing to my freedom and voicing his opinions about it are very different things.
“Certo che no, Papà.” Of course not, Daddy.
I’m not above using the few advantages I have when it comes to my father, and speaking “the tongue of the mother country” always smooths his ruffled feathers, just as speaking French did for my mother when she was alive.
I cross the room and lift his wrist that holds the health monitor he wears for “his overbearing daughter’s sanity. ”
“I’ll be fine, I promise. No stress, remember?
” He grumbles before relenting so I can check his blood pressure.
Once I’m sure it’s in a safe range, I say good night with a kiss on his cheek, then make my way to the opulent two-story foyer to wait for Austin.
My watch says ten till, but I plan to meet him outside as soon as I see him pull up.
No way am I letting him get near my father if I can help it.
Austin… I still don’t even know his last name.
I don’t know anything about him other than he has a Texan accent that gets stronger the more flirtatious he is, he’s friends with the girl I met backstage at Cardinal Sin, and he’s proficient in Google searches.
That’s not much to go on. Am I crazy for even entertaining going out with him?
Maybe. But my curiosity is getting the better of me, because I can’t seem to say no to him.
I’d been so caught up in dancing last night, I hadn’t noticed him walk in.
I was startled and scared when I felt myself spin into someone, but only for the split second it took me to realize whose arms were banded around me.
Then all that adrenaline turned into molten heat and a jolt of desire so strong that it set me off balance.
I tried playing aloof in an attempt to convince us both that he didn’t affect me.
It was an epic fail. At least I had a small victory when it came to the date negotiations.
At five till seven, an SUV pulls into my semi-circular brick paved driveway.
I’m already outside by the time he stops in front of the door and walks around to meet me.
He’s wearing black slacks and shoes, with a pale-green dress shirt that matches his eyes.
It stretches across his broad chest and big arms, tapering at his trim waist, making my mouth water.
“Damn, Emi,” he says, stopping at the bottom of the stone steps to study me. “The way you look is worth me breaking out my wedding-slash-funeral attire.”
I laugh as I walk down to him. “Not many other occasions to get all dressed up?”
“Darlin’, when I go out, it’s for beer and hot wings, neither of which requires a collared shirt. But I’ll wear one every time if it means you’ll be on my arm looking as stunning as you do.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr…?”
“Massey. Austin James Massey, at your service.” He raises my hand and places a soft kiss on my knuckles, the quaint gesture somehow more lascivious the way his lips linger as though on my mouth. Butterflies erupt in my belly as I feel a blush steal into my cheeks.
“Then we’d better go, Mr. Massey,” I say, continuing our faux formality. “Our reservation is for seven thirty, and I do so hate to be tardy.”
“Right this way, miss.” He makes a wide sweep with his free arm, gesturing to his truck.
“Your 2004 Chevy Tahoe with minor rust around the wheel wells awaits.” I laugh and hop into the passenger seat, using the running board and his hand to steady me.
After sliding behind the wheel, he glances over at my castle-like, Tudor-style mansion, and his smile falters.
“If I’d known I was courting royalty, I would’ve borrowed my friend’s Beemer. ”
I chuff in amusement. “My family is less God Save the Queen and more Godfather Part I, without all the messy illegal stuff.”
“You mean all the murder-y stuff?” he clarifies with a smirk as he pulls onto the street.
“Exactly. And as for cars, they’re meant to get us from point A to point B. They’re only status symbols for the extremely pretentious or men who are overcompensating.”
Laughing, he says, “I can’t wait to tell Roman he’s overcompensating. So then what do you drive, girl-who-lives-in-a-castle-on-a-lake?”
I blush, embarrassed about where I come from for the first time that I can think of. “My father’s the pretentious one. That’s his house, and I still drive the Land Rover he bought me. Nothing but the best for his little princess,” I add wryly.
“Aha, so you are royalty. I knew it.”
“I walked right into that, didn’t I?”
“Kinda,” he says, throwing me a wink before returning his attention to the road. “So, your dad bought you a ninety-thousand-dollar vehicle.” He lets out a low whistle. “When I turned sixteen my dad got me a new fishing pole.”