Julia #2
“Sì, Marisa,” he calls out, his voice tight.
“I brought breakfast for Signorina O’Brien,” she says.
My face burns.
Ricardo’s expression turns to one of deep, smug satisfaction.
“Una momento," he says.
“She knows,” I whisper.
“Of course, she knows,” he says, just as quietly. “She's a grown woman, Julia. And not brain dead, at that." He gives me a look.
The logic is there, but it doesn't stop the heat from spreading down my neck and chest.
“Right,” I say.
He leans down and kisses me, quick and hard.
“Stay here,” he says, pulling away. “I will be right back.”
He gets out of bed, and I get an eyeful of him.
A very good eyeful.
My mouth goes dry.
Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Powerful legs. And an ass that should be illegal. He moves so fluidly and gracefully, it's mesmerizing.
He grabs a pair of silk pajama pants from a chair and pulls them on, and I am a little disappointed to see him covered up.
Then, he opens the door just enough to speak to Marisa, blocking her view of the bed.
He speaks to her in Italian, then he closes the door and walks back with a tray in hand.
“We have breakfast,” he says.
“So I see."
He sets the tray on the bed, and I see it's filled with pastries, fruit, a small carafe of coffee, toast. Something warm under a covered dish. A single rose in a slim vase.
My throat goes tight.
“You did this,” I say.
"I did not bake, if that's what you're implying," he says. "I did, however, inform Marisa you would be hungry."
“And when, exactly, did you do that?”
“While you were sleeping,” he says, climbing back into bed.
"I woke before you," I say.
He gives me a look. "Hmm."
I open my mouth to ask exactly what he means by that, then close it.
Instead, I look at the tray. The pastries are flaky and golden, dusted with powdered sugar. The fruit is sliced and arranged perfectly. The coffee smells heavenly. There is even a small dish of jam.
It's a feast.
"Thank you," I say, my voice soft.
"You're welcome," he says. "Now eat."
I pick up a pastry. It's light and airy, and it melts in my mouth. A little moan of pure pleasure escapes my lips.
Ricardo’s eyes darken.
"Eat faster," he says. "I was only promised an hour, remember?"
I laugh, a real, genuine laugh that bubbles up from my chest.
"Sex and breakfast," I tease. "I may never leave this bed.”
He watches me, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. "That can be arranged."
I have a feeling this is exactly how he wants me to be here. Happy. Satisfied. A little bit sassy. A little bit challenging.
And, I have to admit, I like it too.
I take another bite of my pastry. “This is really good.”
“It is a family recipe.”
“Your family has a recipe for breakfast pastries?”
“We are a family of many talents.”
The thought of him learning to bake pastries at the hand of a mother or father is so absurd and endearing, I can't help but smile. I think of him teaching Dante.
My smile dims.
He notices at once.
“What?” he asks.
“I was just thinking about your family,” I say.
“And that thought makes you sad?”
I sigh. "I mean Dante.”
Ricardo goes still.
“What about Dante?” he asks, but I know he knows.
I look down at the pastry in my hand, suddenly very interested in the powdered sugar on my fingers. “He’s my friend. A very good friend.”
“Yes.”
“And your son.”
“Yes.”
I lift my eyes to his. “And this feels like something that could hurt him if we handle it badly.”
Ricardo’s expression softens, but his voice stays steady. “Then we will not handle it badly.”
“Easier said than done,” I say. “I don't know how he's going to take this.”
“Then perhaps we hold off and ease him into it,” Ricardo suggests.
“I don’t want him to feel like I kept something from him,” I say. “I can't push him away or keep things from him. I did that once before with Harrison and—”
“This is not the same,” Ricardo says sternly. “This is far from the same situation. Dante does not need to know everything the moment it happens, especially when we are still understanding it ourselves.”
“And what about Marisa?” I say. “She knows. What if she says something to him?”
He reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “She will be discreet. I promise you.”
I look back down at the beautiful tray of delicious foods prepared for me and feel guilt.
“He matters to you,” he murmurs.
“Very much.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I don't know if I deserve the second chance he gave me. And I don't know if he'd give me a third.”
“Julia,” Ricardo says, almost stern. “Dante did not give you a second chance because you earned enough points to deserve it.”
My throat tightens.
“He gave it to you because he loves you.”
I stare down at the pastry until it blurs a little.
“I may not know the specifics of what happened between you and that bastard,” Ricardo continues. “But I know my son, and I know there are very few people in this world he lets close enough to hurt him.”
I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
“You hurt him once,” he says. “Yes. But you also came back. You told him the truth. You let him be angry. You did not force him to let you back into his life.”
His thumb moves gently along my jaw.
“He made that choice, Julia. Give him enough credit to know his own heart.”
I let out a shuddering breath, then lift my eyes to his.
“I don’t want this to become office gossip,” I whisper.
“It will not.”
The certainty in his voice reassures me.
He is not offended. He is simply listening to my needs.
“I work for Mario,” I say. “I care about the job. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m careless or distracted or sleeping my way into some position.”
His expression cools, not toward me, but toward the idea itself.
“No one who matters will think that.”
“You can’t promise what people think.”
“No,” he says. “But I know my family.”
“And I know mine,” I say quietly.
His eyes cool at those words.
“Yes. I've had the pleasure of catching up with your parents recently,” he says stiffly.
My stomach tightens. “Where? When? What happened?” I fire at him rapidly.
“Easy,” he says, his voice lowering at once. “Nothing happened.”
My pulse is still racing.
“They were at a gala when Mario, Victoria, and I were there,” he continues. “We were close enough to exchange a few words. That is all.”
“A few words about what?”
“You,” he says simply.
My stomach drops.
His hand closes over mine before I can pull too far into my own head.
“Nothing that needs to ruin this morning,” he says.
“Ricardo.”
His eyes hold mine. “They are your parents, Julia. I understand that. So I chose restraint.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Oh God. What did they say? In front of Mario?”
He reaches for my hand and pulls it away from my face. “Your parents have opinions about your life. That much was clear.”
A small, humorless laugh slips out of me. “They always do.”
“That much I gathered.”
I groan. “That bad?”
“They did not embarrass you,” he says. “If that is what you are asking.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Then let me rephrase,” he says. “Neither Mario, nor Victoria, nor I are daft enough to hold you responsible for the things your parents say.”
He takes my hand.
“They are their own people,” he continues. “You are yours. Anyone with sense can see the difference.”
I look down at our joined hands.
“And for the record,” he adds, his voice softening, “Mario has a great deal of sense. Victoria has even more. Neither of them looked at your parents and saw you.”
I blink hard.
“They saw two people speaking out of their asses about things they had no right to speak about,” he says. “That reflects on them, Julia. It does not reflect on you.”
“Really?” I say, not daring to hope.
Ricardo lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Mario thought very highly of your work before he ever met your parents. Their opinions did not change that.”
“And yours?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes darken.
“My opinion of you was high before I met your parents.” He pauses for a beat. “It’s gone up since.”
A shocked laugh scrapes out of me.
“Truly, Julia,” he says dryly. “I had a five-minute conversation with them, but twenty-six years? That is admirable.”
I laugh again, and press my fingers to my mouth.
“That is a terrible thing to say.”
“It is accurate.”
“I know,” I say. “But we still shouldn't say it, right?”
His lips curve. “Here, in my bed, you don’t have to worry about what is or isn’t appropriate.”
My breath catches, and the humor in me turns into something hotter.
“That’s a dangerous thing to tell me,” I say.
“Oh?”
“I might say all kinds of inappropriate things.”
“I look forward to hearing them.”
A smile tugs at my mouth, but there is a strange ache behind it. “I don’t know if I’m good at that yet.”
“At what?”
“Saying what I actually think.”
His thumb moves over my knuckles. “I’ll make sure you get all the practice you need, cuoro mio.”
Then he takes the tray and moves it closer to me.
“Now, eat your breakfast quickly,” he says, then his voice drops, low and seductive. “So I have enough time to eat mine.”
His eyes rove down my body and back up, heated.
My jaw drops at his words, and flame burns hot through my body as I feel my pussy get impossibly wet instantly.
And Ricardo’s slow smile tells me he knows it.