13. Sicily #2
His cheeks flushed red, and I considered this to be his sensitive nature becoming embarrassed.
He set down his tools, coming closer than was comfortable, but clearly this was somewhat private to him, so I allowed it.
He kneeled on the ground next to me and the car’s wheel as he said quietly, “I really like her, but she rejected me…again.”
He was an attractive and kind boy, so this seemed illogical. Many women found dark, curly hair and a big smile attractive; I knew because Adriano had received plenty of female attention, though he had never entertained them.
“I cannot say that I have experience to assist you in this scenario.” I looked down at Lorenzo. “Women are a variable that I do not understand.”
“You’ve got a wife though, right?” He scrunched his nose in a way that reminded me of Ezio.
My nod was slow.
Sicily was my wife, but she did not behave as a wife should. She had been forced to be one; that was a fact, one that I was beginning to believe would overshadow various other facts, like how I had begun to somewhat desire her presence since I had seen her art studio.
She had laughed loudly, and I had not found this disagreeable. She had been focused, and I had found the way she concentrated fascinating. The studio had smelled like her, and it had calmed me. She had asked questions and not once suggested that she thought I was defective.
“So,” Lorenzo said in a high-pitched, extremely juvenile tone. “What do you do to make her, you know, like you?”
“I do no such thing. She does not tolerate my presence for more than three seconds. I invited her here with me today, and she did not come.”
Lorenzo did not reply. I suspected this was not the answer he had hoped for, but it was the truth.
My wife did not like me, not even now, when I could equate my attitude toward her presence as something I liked.
When the boy continued to remain silent, I looked up from the shine of the Maserati to see if he was experiencing emotional dysregulation, but he was staring through the car’s window at the door.
Everyone was staring at the door.
“What are you looking at?” I threw the oily, blackened cloth over my shoulder and stood to see too. My hand reached slowly for the gun in my back pocket, but then, when I saw who was there, it dropped back to my side.
Sicily had walked into my garage wearing the only casual sweater I owned and tight black shorts that only came to her upper thigh. Her hair was twisting down her shoulders in mussed curls, and she had ridiculously long, pink socks beneath her dark sneakers.
She was not fit to visit my garage full of men, but the fact that she was here was…pleasing.
My gaze slid over to Lorenzo who was ogling my wife. That was unacceptable.
I slapped the teen over the back of his head as I warned, “Do not look at my wife’s legs.”
“That’s your wife?” he squeaked, gawking at her as though she was a mystical being, a real-life angel perhaps.
I was not convinced that she was not.
Sicily’s eyes roamed the stares until she landed on mine.
Instantly, she stopped pulling the sleeves over her fingers and smiled.
In the lounge, she had looked displeased with me and my suggestion to come with me, but this was a pleasant change in her demeanor, though I did not understand what it meant.
“Hi,” she said softly, as though she was unsure.
My lips felt itchy, as though I had the urge to smile. “Hello, Sicily.”
“Is it okay that I came?”
I frowned, but I nodded. I had invited her in the first place, so why would she not be welcome? It was becoming clearer the longer she stood there that this could be one of the scenarios that Sicily experienced emotional uncertainty, and I had to ensure that she did not feel unwanted. Somehow.
She stepped closer, raising her brows and smirking at the car that was almost complete. “Wow, this is such a nice car.”
“Maserati,” Lorenzo said as if she had asked.
My wife grinned at him, nodding, brushing her fingertips along the sleek black paint. “What’s your name?”
“This is Lorenzo,” I answered for him, grasping his shoulders and driving him away, back toward the group across the garage. “He is leaving.”
“What?” the boy exclaimed. “Why am I—”
“I do not have experience to support your girl problems, Lorenzo, but I am socially adept enough to be aware when one would like your attention. Alone. Do not return.”
When I turned back, Sicily was watching me with a grin brighter than the headlights.
She was undoubtedly magnificent to look at.
I paused at that thought. It was new, but it was also inconceivable that I had not seen my wife’s beauty before now. How had I avoided this fact when she looked the way she did? Why could I not stop looking at her?
I cleared my throat, returning to her side. “You changed your mind.”
She hummed a response of agreement. “I can’t lie; I didn’t peg you as the kind to be getting your hands dirty.”
“I do not help here often enough, but I find it helps to clear my mind.”
Sicily followed me around the car, and I suspected by the gleam in her eyes that she enjoyed looking at the aesthetic value of a vehicle.
She traced the hood with her fingers, and I popped it open for her to view the mechanics, shielding us from the rest of the garage.
Her face became unreadable, but I could guess that she was both intrigued and confused by the way her eyes flickered rapidly over the components as she frowned.
“You know what all of this is?” She gestured to the technology.
I nodded once, standing beside her and realizing that the touch of our shoulders was not unwelcome. “My father taught me when I was very young. Shall I show you?”