Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Maybe it’s the music.
Maybe it’s the handsome man with the intense gaze pinning me into place . . .
I’ve reached the bottom of my first Aperol spritz when the room begins to spin like a merry-go-round. Maybe one of these days I’ll accept the fact that I’m a lightweight. A cheap date. I meant to eat something beforehand so I wouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach again, but after Margaux vetoed my outfit, it completely slipped my mind.
“So your mother lives in France?” I ask. He’d briefly mentioned it earlier this evening before our server stopped to take our order, and the conversation veered to something else.
“With her new husband, yes,” he says with a hint of subtle distaste in his tone.
“I take it you’re not his biggest fan?” I arch a brow.
“Something like that.”
I lift a single shoulder. “You love who you love.”
“He’s half her age, poor as a pauper, and she’s funding his stalled-out music career, but yes, I suppose you love who you love.” He takes a sip of whiskey, his eyes not leaving mine for a second.
“What kind of music does he make?” I ask.
Roman’s upper lip curls, like he’s attempting to stifle a laugh. “He, uh, he wants to be like a French version of Eminem—or something like that.”
“Oh.” I try to reserve my judgment, as everyone is allowed to have their dreams, but I imagine my reaction’s written all over my face at the moment. I’ve never been good at wearing a poker face, and the cocktail coursing through my veins certainly doesn’t help.
“Right,” he says with a sniff. “Oh.”
“Hopefully there’s a prenup or something in the mix . . . you just never know with those kinds of relationships . . . the age difference and all of that . . . and creative types can be so fickle sometimes . . .”
“I don’t even want to know if there’s a prenup,” he says with a hint of annoyance coloring his tone, which leads me to believe there likely isn’t one.
“Does she see your girls often?”
“She comes back when she can.” His tone is bordering on terse, leading me to believe it’s a sore subject for him. I’m about to ask about his dad when I recall Antonio mentioning Mr. Bellisario had passed. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“A brother,” he says. “He’s an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles. We’re not as close as we used to be these days. He’s got his life, and I’ve got mine. We try to get together once a year.”
“He didn’t want to help you with the shipping business?” I ask.
“Different fathers,” he says. “Though I don’t think it’d have made a difference. He’d be miserable doing anything else but practicing law. It suits him. The man loves to prove a point any chance he can.”
“It’s so funny how some people are just born to do a certain job,” I say. I’m about to wax on about Margaux and her social butterfly ways and how she found her calling—when I quickly remember that I am Margaux. “You could still teach art, you know. Maybe not now, but someday.”
He takes another sip of his drink before shaking his head. “I try not to think that far ahead. I find focusing on the future tends to make me wish my life away.”
“I don’t know how to stop living in the future,” I say. “It’s all I think about . . . so many things I want to do, so much I’m looking forward to.”
“I used to be that way,” he says. “Before I became a father. The girls have forced me to slow down and be engaged in the moment. I’m not sure I even knew how to do that before they came along.”
“What’s your favorite thing about being a dad?” I prop my elbow on the table, leaning forward with my chin on the top of my hand as I await his answer. I’ve never been good at small talk. I like to dig deep, below the surface. I like the harder-hitting, soul-pressing conversations. Real and meaningful topics, no fluff.
Roman cocks his head ever so slightly, as if my question catches him off guard. And then he stares off to the side for a second, looking lost in contemplation.
“All of it,” he finally answers. “The random I love yous. Getting to experience everything for the first time again through their eyes. Watching these little humans grow into their personalities. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”
“It sounds magical when you put it that way.”
“It’s not always magical,” he says. “But that’s kind of the best thing about it. The highs always make up for the lows. I could be having the worst day in the world, but the second I walk through the door after work and they run up to me with smiles and throw their arms around me, everything else sort of . . . fades away.”