Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
"There she is," Celeste said, shooting me a smile. "Did we cut your shower short?" she asked. "I know fitting in a, you know, full-service shower with a small kid around is difficult at best."
"I was just taking a quick one," I said, keeping my gaze away from Santi, even though I felt his on me. "I was going to order some Mexican."
"Nonna is making dinner!" Avi gushed.
"Oh, okay. Well, I don't want to get in the way of family dinner," I said, taking a step back. "I'll head out."
"No, stay," Santi said, voice low.
"Of course you're going to stay. You're practically family now."
"Okay. Thanks," I said, pretending to ignore the warm sensation spreading across my chest.
"Av, why don't you go get to work on your homework?" Santi suggested. "Get it out of the way, so you can relax for the rest of the night."
There was some grumbling to that, but he eventually moved off to his room to get started.
"How was piano?" Santi asked. His mother raised a brow, and reached for a bottle of red wine she'd bought. "That bad, huh?" he asked, wincing.
"I'm not entirely sure why Ottavio takes piano," Celeste said, handing the bottle to her son to open.
I did not watch those sexy hands of his make short work of that task.
Nope.
Not me.
I mean... sexy hands?
What the hell was the matter with me?
"What do you mean?" Santi asked, grabbing three glasses. Normally, I was not a huge red wine drinker—save for at Sunday dinners where it was practically mandatory—but I needed a drink too much to object.
"Well, he's... is there a kind way to say your grandson doesn't have a musical bone in his body? Because he doesn't," Celeste declared with a bemused smile. "I had a splitting headache when we left."
"He's probably out of practice," Santi defended.
"Honey, he spent half the class staring out the window at the cabs passing. He didn't want to practice. That's why I was saying I wasn't sure why he takes it if he doesn't seem to enjoy it."
"Could he have, you know, been thinking about his mom?" I asked. "Since she was the one who used to bring him?"
"I wondered that too," Celeste said as she folded the paper grocery bags and set them aside to look at her ingredients. "I actually asked the teacher when Avi went to the bathroom. She said he's always been like that. I know he's had a lot of change lately. And maybe you just want to keep things status quo right now. But once some time has passed, maybe let him know it's okay if he's not into it. There are plenty of other activities if you want him to do them."
"Yeah," Santi agreed, giving his mother her wine, then approaching me.
I didn't think he would. I figured he would avoid me like the plague after the bathroom incident. Yet he approached me, holding out the glass. And with his big hand, it was impossible to take the glass without our hands brushing.
I swear there was a charge at the contact, a spark that sizzled up my arm.
My gaze shot up, curious if he felt it. But his face was unreadable in the moment.
"So, Alessa, do you cook?"
"She microwaves," Santi supplied with a smirk as he turned away from me to go stand far to the other side of the island. "And orders in."
"And makes highly rated cereal combinations," I added.
"Yeah, can't forget that," Santi agreed.
Celeste looked between the two of us for a moment, but like her son, she had a really good poker face when it served her.
"How about you help me make the olive oil dip for the bread?" Celeste asked.
"Oh, I don't think—" I started to object.
"Sure she can," Santi interrupted.
"Fine. I'm outnumbered," I conceded, taking a long sip of my wine. "But I am not taking any blame if it comes out inedible."
An hour later, we were sitting down to dinner, and Avi was dipping his forth slice of bread into the dip I'd carefully put together.
And, true, it was just some herbs and spices in some olive oil. But it was the most amount of cooking I'd ever done. I was holding my breath that it was good.
It was almost as if Santi sensed that need, because he rustled Avi's hair at the base of his neck. "You like that dip, huh?"
"It's good," Avi said over a mouthful. And none of us corrected him for it.
"Less made it," Santi said.
And the look on this kid's face. I nearly spit out my wine. It was a mix of shock and fear and disgust.
"Don't worry, bud," I said, kicking his foot under the table. "I was under careful supervision."
"She burns pasta," Avi declared to the table.
"Hey. That was frozen pasta. And in my defense, you have a fancier microwave than I do. I didn't realize that I needed to adjust the time down."