Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“I improvised,” I say with a shrug designed to look nonchalant. “Any serious relationship progresses.”
“You’re complicating this unnecessarily.”
I shoot her another glance. My voice turns dark. “Am I?”
“You’re making it more difficult to have a discreet breakup when this is over.”
Because it won’t be over. Luigi won’t rest until she’s dead, and I already decided she’s mine. Forever.
My reaction to her isn’t normal. It’s nothing short of miraculous. I’m afraid if I let it go, I’ll never have it again. Anyway, the idea of another man’s hands on her turns me rabid. I’ll never allow that as long as I live.
But I don’t tell her that either. All I say is, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Which is never.
She blows out a breath and looks through the window, hiding her expression from me.
I don’t like it. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on in her head. I don’t like it when she’s not happy because then the baby isn’t happy. That’s what the coach at the prenatal class said. My plan was spending a nice day together while showing her off in public, not digging up bones and marinating in pain from the past.
“I know a great seafood restaurant on the river,” I say. “Hungry? You didn’t eat much this morning.”
She glances at the clock on the dashboard. “It’s only eleven thirty.”
“So what? Who said you can’t have lunch for breakfast?”
She smiles. “Don’t you mean brunch?”
Fuck, yeah. I like that look on her much better. I’m not going to lie. She’s gorgeous when she’s scared. When death stares her in the eyes, her love of life, everything she hasn’t lived yet, burns with vigor in those whisky-colored pools. Her fight makes them glow like the sun. But when she smiles, her whole face lights up. It’s as if the sun comes from inside her, as if summer lives in her chest. She’s my precious treasure. Unlike the random shit I shoved into a hole in a tree, she’s the real fucking deal, the only woman who can set me on fire.
The restaurant isn’t far from the firm where Anya works. I park a block away and walk her to the modern glass building that floats on the quay. It takes months to get a reservation, but the owner knows me.
Before we reach the drawbridge that gives access to the restaurant deck, Anya hangs back.
I stop and give her a questioning look. Her face has taken on an ashen color. She cups her stomach like someone who’s about to be sick.
“Here,” I say, quickly guiding her to the rows of flowerpots on the side.
She hunches over, sucking in air through her mouth.
“Breathe, tesoro.” I rub her back. “Is it the morning sickness?”
It takes her a moment to catch her breath. Straightening, she says, “It’s the smell of the fish.”
I didn’t pay attention, but a strong smell of deep-fried fish wafts to us on the breeze.
“Better?” I ask, taking her elbow.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t ever apologize for being pregnant again. Come on. I have an idea.”
I take her back to the car and drive to Little Italy. The restaurant I frequent doesn’t have a sign above the door or a menu outside. The daily special is whatever the chef decides to cook.
Rusty does a double-take when I enter with Anya. One, I usually only come here for dinner. Two, I’ve never brought a woman.
“Sav,” he says, greeting me with the customary hug and a slap on the back. “Who’s this lovely lady?”
“This is Anya, my girlfriend. We’re getting engaged soon.”
He grows a pair of owl eyes, but he quickly schools his features. “Welcome. You’re in luck.” He winks at Anya. “I made fresh gnocchi.” Bustling toward the back, he waves for us to follow. “Come in. I’ll prepare your table.”
We go through the main area to the private room at the back. There’s only one table set with a checkered tablecloth and a geranium pot plant in the center. A fridge with wine and beer stands in the corner.
He seats Anya and drapes a napkin over her lap. “Any allergies or food intolerances?”
Anya shakes her head.
“Anya is very fond of tomatoes,” I say.
“Ah.” Rusty waves a finger in the air. “I have just the thing for you then. How does my creamy pomodoro sauce sound?”
“Perfect,” Anya says, smiling at him.
I lean over and take her hand, making it clear she’s mine and reminding her that all those pretty smiles belong to me. “Bring us a salad for the table and a side dish of antipasti. Do you have tiramisu today?”
“Always.” Rusty snaps his fingers. “Would you like some wine?”
“I’m driving. Water will do.” I look at Anya. “Still or sparkling? Maybe something else? Tomato juice?”
Her smile stretches at the mention of the juice. “Still water is fine, thank you.”
“I’ll bring your order shortly,” Rusty says with enthusiasm that reaches a new level before hurrying away.