Chapter Eighteen #2
“I know it’s not the same kind of thing, but I was once rooming with another model and was losing my mind and calling the police because she hadn’t been home in three days.”
“What happened?”
“She met a photographer and went to Spain with him for a long weekend. God, I was so mad at her. So hopefully, Dom checks in and you can be pissed at him instead of worried.”
“Let’s hope,” I agreed, giving her body a squeeze as I leaned down and inhaled the sweet scent of her. “Want some wine? The food should be up soon.”
“We could have had leftovers,” she said, pulling back to roll her eyes at me. “But, yes, wine. And not one of those proper pours. Fill that glass up.”
She made her way over to the couch, sitting down and looking out at the view.
I filled the glasses and joined her, pulling her legs over my lap.
For a long couple of moments, we just sat there, sipping the wine and enjoying each other’s company.
“It’s been a day,” she declared, setting her mostly empty glass down on the coffee table.
“My day has been mostly uneventful until the last hour,” I said, getting a little laugh out of her.
“Distract me.”
“Any ideas?”
“Tell me something about you. Something real, personal. I feel like I know you, but I don’t know the details about you, if that makes sense.”
“I fucking hate olives. Which is interesting in an Italian family. I have terrible handwriting. And I like to watch cooking videos to unwind.”
“Do you know how to cook?”
“Yes. My ma made all of us learn, even though she is usually shoving food at us, so we don’t need to do it much. You?”
“Cook? No. I mean… no. I tried to learn when I was staying with my grandmother, but I could never imagine what things would taste like together, so I kept making weird combinations that nobody liked. Where do you live? Apartment, house?”
“Apartment right now. Got my eyes on the market,” I told her. I went ahead and left out that I’d only been looking since I came down to AC. “Figure I’ll know the right house when I see it.”
“What’s wrong with your apartment?”
“Nothing. But I want to raise a family in a house with a yard. What about you?”
“You know where I live.”
“I meant do you see yourselves with a house, yard, kids?”
“Oh, that. Well, I’d need a lot more stability than I have now. But I’ve done the apartment thing most of my life. A house would be nice. A little backyard with a hammock and flower garden.”
Her blue eyes went far away, like she was imagining it right then. Suddenly, my future house had a new requirement to go along with the chef’s kitchen, four bedrooms, and a basement that was (or could be) finished. A good set of trees for a hammock.
“And… yeah. Yeah, I think I want kids. I mean, a part of me is terrified I’d be a terrible mom. I didn’t have the most loving role model. But I’d love to carry on my grandmother’s legacy. And her eyes,” she said, rapidly blinking hers at me.
“They’re a really nice hand-me-down.”
“Do you want a million kids like your mom had?”
“I want kids. I figure I’m not gonna have any idea how many until I at least have one.”
“Don’t you have a bunch of nieces and nephews?”
“I do. But I can hand those back and get a good night of sleep.”
“That’s true. I’ve never really been around babies. My family was so small. And, well, modeling and lounge singing aren’t baby-friendly careers.”
“I’m always tripping over toddlers and trying to save my phone and keys from infants.”
“Your family is really close, huh?”
“Close as you can get. Think I’ve gotten twenty texts just today from various people keeping me updated on shit back home.”
“That’s really sweet.”
“I’m assuming you only had that when you were with your grandmother.”
“Yeah. And I wasn’t there nearly as often as I would have liked.
Whenever I went to stay with her, my mother would get sick of working, come back to get me, and start using me for income.
There’s a magazine out there somewhere with me modeling a sundress and hat with red-rimmed eyes because I was crying to go back with my grandmother on the way to the shoot. ”
“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching for her feet and pressing my thumbs into her soles.
She arched like a cat, a surprised moan escaping her.
“Heels,” I said, shaking my head. “Dunno how you wear them.”
“Because they make our asses look really good.”
“Baby, you don’t need heels to make your ass look good.”
“I didn’t say you could stop,” she said, shooting me narrowed eyes when I paused.
So I massaged her feet, then her calves, watching her whole body relax inch by inch as the moments passed.
My fingers had just slipped under her robe, touching her thighs, when the damn room service knock came.
It was probably for the best anyway.
The last thing I wanted was to have things start getting heated again only to have a call come in to join the search efforts for Domenico.
“Don’t get your hopes too high. The overnight menu was shit. We have an assortment of flatbreads—spinach Florentine and BBQ chicken.”
We ate while talking more about both our childhoods, both of us seeming to marvel at how different they were. Hers, full of travel and high demands for performance. Mine, full of family and typical kid fun.
We drank more wine.
“I should probably get going,” she said, but made no move to do so.
I reached toward her, pulling until she went up on her knees on the cushion.
“Stay,” I demanded, my thumb gliding across the inside of her wrist.
Her smile was small and soft.
She shifted, sliding to straddle my lap.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, sealing her lips to mine.