33. Baldo
Mimi swats at me with the white towel she carries over her shoulder and wipes her hands with it. “Nice to meet you.”
She pulls Brook in for a hug.
“Lovely to meet you.” Brook welcomes Mimi’s intrusion with a warm smile.
Their exchange tugs at my heart, but it also reminds me we won’t get the same reception at home. Not as a couple.
It’s not fair to Brook.
“I can’t believe I wasn’t invited to the wedding.” Mimi huffs.
“It was in New York.” I squeeze Mimi’s shoulder. “Brook, Mimi’s cooking is the best in all of Portugal.”
That placates our host. Beaming, Mimi leads us to a cozy corner table.
The aromatic scents of garlic, tomatoes and herbs waft through the air as we sit down.
“I’m not even giving you menus. Tonight, you eat the best food in the world and drink the best wine from my cellar to celebrate your wedding.”
Mimi shuffles away, swatting at me again with the towel. I guess I’m not forgiven for getting married without her blessing.
“I must say, I’m surprised. I’d never picture you in a place like this, but I love it.” Brook looks around with her typical curiosity.
Mimi’s restaurant exudes a rustic charm. It’s a well-kept secret among locals, not yet infiltrated by tourists.
The interior boasts an eclectic mix of mismatched wooden tables and chairs. Walls adorned with black-and-white photographs capture Lisbon’s timeless beauty, while handwritten menus suggest dishes prepared with love and tradition.
“Mimi and her husband are talented cooks. Please don’t make this place a crime scene in your book.”
She laughs. “I can’t promise that, but I might send my hero on vacation here.”
“I like Waldo Rivers.” Her main character, a PI, is a well-written, flawed hero.
She covers her face. “God, I forgot you read my books.”
“Why haven’t you told the family you’re a writer? I get the secret behind the pen name your publisher has been milking, but sharing your success with your family?”
She purses her lips and moves them to the side, thinking. A gesture I remember. “I never felt like I fit in, you remember that. Being a rebel had been my cry for attention. One I never outgrew. I know it’s stupid, but I kept telling myself that if they were truly interested, they would find out.”
“Are you going to tell them now?”
I want to ask about us, not just her career, but maybe we can have an evening where the conversation isn’t tainted.
“I don’t know.” She smiles at me, and for the next few beats we just stare at each other, pretending we have no worries in the world.
“I hope you like fish and seafood.” I break the silence.
“Of course I do, especially fresh. But my favorite has always been Mexican food. There’s something about the blend of flavors that I find really exciting. Tacos, enchiladas, bring it on.”
I chuckle. “You lost me at tacos.”
She gasps in mock offense. “You take that back. Tacos are a primary food group.”
“Steak is a primary food group.”
Brook narrows her eyes, grinning. “We may have to agree to disagree on that one. It’s Skittles all over again. Who even are you?”
We stare at each other for a moment, wondering who even we are.
Well, I’m wondering, because as much as I’m sensing the long-lost connection, I’m also realizing we’ve grown up, had experiences that changed us, and this is almost like our first date.
Rediscovering.
Uncovering.
Wondering.
The server brings us water, wine, and a bread basket.
“Oh my god, I haven’t eaten all day.” Brook tears a piece of white loaf.
“Why?”
“I was too busy revisiting my life. Thank you very much.” She rolls her eyes.
“I’m sorry you found those files, but it’s not like there was anything earth-shattering there.”
She munches casually. “I partied, shopped, and dated abusive assholes.”
I wince at that. I hate those men, and that’s before I acknowledge how poorly they treated her. “Stop putting yourself down, or I’ll put you over my knee until your ass is burning.”
Her eyes widen, and there is a spark in them before she catches herself and covers the reaction with the wineglass.
“This is delicious.”
“My company is delicious.”
“Sappy much?”
I throw my head back, laughing. God, I haven’t done that in years as much as in the last few days.
And just like that, the walls are cracking. They have been cracking for weeks now, but I haven’t admitted that to myself openly.
Mimi arrives with two plates of prawns pil pil, knowing it’s one of my favorites.
“Mmm, this is divine.” Brook sighs. “The garlic just melts in your mouth.”
“Told you, Mimi’s the best. She knows all my weak spots.” I wipe my mouth and watch Brook eat.
It’s addictive. Just like on the street, when she admired everything she saw, she eats with an enthusiasm that is contagious.
Maybe she partied and shopped a lot, but she certainly grew into enjoying life with open arms.
“Maybe I dated assholes because I craved the adrenaline of it.”
“I can give you enough adrenaline, baby.” I lick my lip, steering the conversation, because no fucking way I’m talking about her fucking exes.
Our eyes lock and she opens her mouth, but changes her mind and returns to her food instead.
“Brook,” I warn. “Talk.”
She straightens the napkin in her lap and takes a sip of the wine. “Would you chase me again like that first night?”
For a second, my mind goes to that night when I didn’t save her. Will the shadows of our past always define every moment between us? Mark our intimacy?
But then I look at her, really look at her, and what I find isn’t the ghost of the past, but genuine desire, primal need. Her pupils are dilated, and her breathing is rushed.
“Is that what you want me to do? To force you?” There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
“Yes,” she rasps.
“Okay.” I smile, and my cock twitches in my pants. “You have your safe word.”
She bites her bottom lip, excitement flashing across her face.
“Fuck dessert. Let’s go use my gift.”
* * *
“How was Italy?” Brook asks, taking a bite of the pastel de nata.
We’re sitting in the same bistro I took her to with Chloe. Our small table is one of the few that line the front windows along the sidewalk.
Her eyes are glassy in that dreamlike way, and her face is flushed. She wears the just-fucked look beautifully. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of her head.
No makeup. No frills. Nobody would guess this woman’s net worth is formidable. It’s funny how I know so much about her, but only this morning I learned how she takes her coffee.
No surveillance report could ever get me a taste of the real woman behind the bravado. Getting under all her layers is exciting. And dangerous.
“Boring.” I cross one leg over my knee and lean back, enjoying the view.
There are moments—fluid, silent moments like this one—when I still can’t believe I have her. That she is mine.
For now.
She cocks her head. “I thought you loved your work,” she mocks.
“Yeah, but your tits distracted me.”
Fuck, when she sent me that picture… I don’t think I’ve ever conducted a business meeting with a semi in my pants. And I own sex clubs.
She laughs. “I’ll keep them to myself. I wouldn’t want Baldo’s empire to crumble because of my boobs.”
“It would be a worthy fall.” I pick up her hand and kiss her knuckles.
Electricity zaps between us. I almost throw some bills on the table and drag her back to my lair.
“Where did you go before Italy?” She licks her finger, the creamy custard sticking to them.
I don’t particularly want to have this conversation. Fuck, I don’t really want to have any conversations, but the glimpse of her tongue distracts me. I’m a simple man, as the bulge in my pants attests.
“New York, and then the Dominican Republic.”
“Wait? Do you have clubs in the Caribbean?” She takes a sip of water. Her lips pressing against the glass. Why is her every move so arousing?
She’s drinking water. Get your fucking head out of your ass, idiot. It’s like I’m seventeen all over again. Pure infatuation.
“Cayman Islands, yes, but I went to the Dominican on a personal matter.”
“Oh.” She glowers at me, and then turns in her seat as if people watching was her intention instead of getting more details.
Fuck, she’s adorable.
“Brook,” I warn, and she looks at me, unimpressed. “I told you already, I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“How would you know if you’re keeping it a secret?” She scoffs, folding her arms.
“Brook, leave it.”
She huffs, and this time she turns the whole chair. Such a dedicated people watcher.
We sit in silence, but this one isn’t comfortable like before. She folds her arms and glowers at the pedestrians. Not that they are the target of her annoyance.
“Tokyo.” I sigh.
She snaps her head to me, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t Tokyo me.”
I smirk. “You’re still jealous?”
“Fuck you.” She grabs her phone from the table and pushes off her seat.
I grab her wrist. “I’ve only been with you since we got married, darling wife.”
She drops back to her seat, but yanks her hand away. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because I wouldn’t lie to you.” I have never spoken a more honest truth.
The statement sits between us, heavy with implied commitment. Maybe not to the extent she would like to hear, but one that I’m willing to give at this point.
Brook stares at me and then shakes her head, like she can’t agree with herself. “Okay, I trust you.”
Fuck. She awarded me her trust with her body already. But this… this feels like more.
More significant.
More binding.
Essential.
We both startle when her phone dances on the table.
“It’s London.” Brook tenses and picks up. “Is Dad okay?”
Shit. I watch her for any signs, hoping the news isn’t too bad.
“Oh my God. Yes, yes, we’ll get back as soon as possible.”
She’s smiling as she says that, so I relax. Though I’m not particularly keen on returning to the States.
“Paris had a baby boy. It’s a bit early, but they are both doing well. Mom and Dad are returning from Florida. We should go back.”
She’s radiant with excitement, but her smile dies as soon as she utters the words.
We don’t need to say it out loud—the implications are obvious.
Are we returning as siblings or as a couple?
They will never accept us.