20. Cat
— ? —
Cat
The morning is too beautiful to stay inside.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway. The truth involves the way Max looked at me over breakfast, his texts from last night still burning in my phone, my complete inability to focus on the manuscript when every room holds a memory of something soft he’s done this week.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announce, pulling on boots by the back door. “The woods path.”
Max looks up from his laptop. “Give me two minutes.”
“I don’t need a chaperone.”
“You need someone who knows the property boundaries, someone armed, and someone who can carry you back if you twist an ankle.” He’s already closing the laptop. “Two minutes.”
“I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
“I know. There are still people looking for us. Take me or one of Enzo’s guards, please.”
I consider a walk with one of Enzo’s humorless cousins. “Two minutes, then.” I wait by the door.
The woods path starts behind the barn and winds into the hills, the same trail I walked with Nonna as a kid. Max matches his pace to mine, wearing a henley with sleeves pushed up, and I’m trying not to notice his forearms in the morning light.
“This is where you spent your summers,” he says. “I can see why you loved it.”
“It was perfect. No phones, no obligations, just me and Nonna and whatever adventure we invented.”
“What kind of adventures?”
“Dramatic ones. Rescuing imaginary princesses, fighting dragons in the meadow.” I step over a branch. “I had a very active imagination.”
“Had?”
“Have. It just manifests differently now. In books.” I glance sideways. “Which we’re not discussing.”
“I wasn’t going to bring them up.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was thinking about how interesting it is that you write fiction and you’re married to someone who lies professionally. There’s probably a metaphor in there.”
He huffs, and there’s no real sting in it, just the easy scrape of two people learning each other’s edges.
“The metaphor is we’re both good at making things up and bad at telling each other the truth.”
“Ouch.”
“Truth hurts.”
“So I’m learning.” He holds a branch aside for me. “When you were on the run, those four months, were you ever happy? Even for a moment?”
The question catches me off guard. “Sometimes. There was this regular at the bar, Frank. Old, cynical as hell, saw through everyone’s bullshit. Including mine. Talking to him was weirdly comforting.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Life. Death. The inevitability of disappointment. Real ray of sunshine.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“You’d have hated each other. Two grumpy men is a recipe for disaster.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
He makes a low sound that’s almost a laugh, and I add it to the collection of small thaws I’ve been keeping without meaning to.
“You once glared at a waiter so hard he dropped an entire tray of champagne.”
“The service was slow.”
“You were in a mood because Sergio had needled you all evening.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do. I remember a lot of things you probably wish I’d forget.
” I kick a pinecone. “Like how you never once asked me about my day. Not once in six months, Max. I’d sit across from you at dinner and you’d be somewhere else entirely.
I used to make up conversations in my head, what you might say if you actually saw me sitting there. ”
“I saw you.”
“You looked through me. Seeing is not the word.”
“No. I know that now.” His voice is rough. “What did you imagine I’d say? In those conversations?”
“Stupid things. Normal things. ‘How was your writing today?’ ‘Did you finish that chapter?’ ‘Tell me about the book you’re reading.’” I shrug. “Basic husband stuff. The kind of thing that says ‘I notice you exist.’”
“I noticed you existed. Every second of every day, I noticed.”
“I know what you’ve told me. I need to know what happens the next time you’re afraid.”
He watches the path before answering. “I say that I’m afraid. I tell you what I know, and we decide what to do. Even if the answer isn’t the one I want.”
“I’ll remember you said that.”
“I want you to.”
The path curves upward, trees thinning to reveal a clearing with a fallen log and a valley view below.
“I used to come here as a kid,” I say. “Nonna called it the thinking spot.”
“What did you think about?”
“What I wanted to be when I grew up. Whether dragons were real. Why boys were so annoying.”
“And your conclusions?”
“Writer, definitely real because Nonna said so, and boys were annoying because they didn’t know how to express their feelings.”
“Harsh but fair.”
“I was eight. Strong opinions.” I don’t sit on the log. Too restless, too aware of him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Why didn’t you ever bring me here? During the marriage. You knew how much this place meant to me.”
“I didn’t even find it until you were gone.”
He looks out over the hills like the answer might be written somewhere in them.
“That’s not what I asked. You had my whole story. Why didn’t you go looking?”
“I should have looked sooner. I was so focused on immediate threats, the coup, the traitors, keeping you alive, that I forgot to actually live with you. Every time I thought about doing something normal, something happy, another crisis demanded attention.”
“There was always going to be another crisis. That’s the life.”
“I know. I should have known it then. I kept thinking there would be time later, when things calmed down.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I kept putting you off until later, and later never came.”
“It came. I just wasn’t there for it.”
The sun climbs higher. Max stops and pulls his henley over his head, then the t-shirt underneath.
I forget what I was going to say.
He’s carved from something solid, broad shoulders, defined chest, arms that come from actual labor. Tattoos wind across his skin like stories I’ve never been told.
“Sorry,” he says, folding the shirts. “The heat-”
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out wrong. “Fine.”
He catches me looking. His mouth curves, slow and knowing. “See something interesting?”
“I’m looking at the view.”
“The view’s behind you.”
“Multiple views. I’m exercising my options.”
He steps closer. “You’re the one looking now.”
“You’re shirtless. In public. That’s unusual.”
“Our land. Not public.”
“Still. You’re not usually… on display.”
He stands in the sun with his shirts slung over one shoulder, comfortable in a way I rarely saw him be inside the house.
“Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem-” I stop, frustrated with how hard it is to think. “I’m still not used to you showing any kind of emotion. Or interest. For six months you were a wall. Now you’re this.”
The teasing drains from his face. “The wall was a defense. A method. I thought keeping everything locked down would protect you from the war I was fighting. Like my feelings were a vulnerability to exploit.”
“And now?”
“Now I know what the method cost me. Six months of distance, four months of you being gone, and I felt everything the entire time. Every emotion I pretended not to have. Every moment I wanted to reach for you and didn’t.
” He’s close enough that I see gold flecks in his eyes.
“I was never cold because I didn’t feel anything.
I was cold because I felt too much and didn’t know what to do with it. ”
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
“You could have trusted me.”
The word lands soft, no defense behind it, and somehow that’s harder to stay angry at than any argument would be.
“I know that too.”
“Do you understand how crazy it made me? Wanting someone who acted like he didn’t even see me?”
“Yes. Because I was on the other side of it, wanting you so badly I couldn’t breathe, convincing myself that wanting was weakness.”
He’s so close. Heat radiates off bare skin. One step and we’d be touching.
I take the step.
The kiss starts slow, tentative, testing.
His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing cheekbones.
I rise on my toes, fingers finding his hair, and it deepens into something desperate.
He’s careful even now, hands at my waist, mindful of the belly, not pushing beyond what I’m offering.
And I’m offering everything, kissing him like I’ve starved for it.
We break apart, breathing hard.
“We should-” I start.
My ankle catches on a root.
I’m going down, arms pinwheeling, already thinking about the baby, the fall…
Max moves faster than thought.
He grabs me and twists midair so when we hit ground, I land on him. His back takes full impact, arms locked around me, and we slide before stopping.
“Are you okay?” His hands run over me, voice frantic. “The baby, is the baby-”
“I’m fine. Max, I’m fine.”
“Your ankle-”
“Didn’t even twist. You caught me before-”
“Your stomach? Any impact? Pain?”
“Max.” I put hands on his face. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine. You broke our fall.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Now breathe before you pass out on me.”
He drops his head back, exhaling. “Jesus Christ.”
“That was impressive. The action-hero catch.”
“Glad my panic entertained you.”
“It wasn’t entertaining. It was…” I trail off. Touching. Overwhelming.
He sits up, taking me with him, and then he’s standing with me in his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you home.”
“I can walk.”
“I’m not putting you down.”
His arms don’t so much as tremble under me, and somewhere around the tree line my protests start losing conviction.
“Max, I’m pregnant, not injured.”
“You almost fell. I’m carrying you back and making sure you’re actually okay.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Probably. Don’t care.”
“I’m not some delicate flower-”
“I know you can walk. Would you let me carry you as far as the house? Then we can both stop pretending that didn’t scare us.”
I let my head drop to his chest, his heart going steady and certain against my ear, and allow myself to be carried for once.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m protesting.”
“Noted.”
“This is embarrassing.”
“Also noted.”
My hands settle on his shoulders, fingers brushing bare neck.
He trips.
“What-”
“Nothing. Rock.”
“There wasn’t a rock.”
“Definitely a rock.”
I press a kiss to his neck, below his ear. He stumbles again.
“Cat.”
“What?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t-” He breaks off as I kiss him again, letting lips linger. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.”
“I’m trying not to drop you.”
“You said you’re not putting me down. I’m testing your commitment.”
My teeth graze his earlobe. He curses in Italian, something I shouldn’t repeat.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he says.
“Doing what? Just sitting here.”
“You’re torturing me. Deliberately-” Another kiss below his jaw. “Fuck. Cat, this is dangerous.”
“How? You’re the one with control issues.”
“Yes, and my control has limits, and you are testing every single one of them.”
“Poor baby.”
He picks up the pace, practically running. The farmhouse comes into view.
“Almost there,” he mutters. “Just have to make it to the door-”
I kiss his neck again.
He stops, breathes out hard, and looks down at me. “Behave until we’re on level ground.” I let him reach the porch before I kiss him again.