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“Like you haven’t done the same every hour of every day for the last month.” A dark, sexy grin slipped across his face so fast, I nearly missed it.
“And you loved every second, don’t lie.” I let go of his hand to place my palm over his heart, finding it slow and steady. The beats a comforting rhythm.
“I’ll think about the second job,” he said after quietly staring at me. “We can discuss it again later. I don’t need to say yes now. But there’s more I want to share with you about my day.”
He let go of me and was back on his feet. He went over to the uncorked bottle of wine and filled our glasses. Ryan’s uncle owned a winery in Tuscany, and it was his label of Chianti Enzo had brought with him tonight.
“My family went to visit Bianca at the cemetery this afternoon before I flew home.”
His words had me standing, my heart now feeling as though I were fighting for my life. “Are you okay?” Dumb question. Why would you be?
He turned, armed with the two glasses, his brows slanting as if unsure how to answer. “I think so, yes.” He handed me a glass, and he took a small sip, and I did the same, hoping to calm my nerves. “I brought Bianca’s unedited story with me and read it there.”
Oh jeez. Now I was going to cry. But I did my best not to, because I didn’t want him having to comfort me when I wanted to be the one there for him.
“You already know the parts printed in the magazine,” he began, his eyes on the wineglass. “That she bumped into him at a coffee shop one Friday, spilling her coffee on him. They wound up chatting. And then he started going there every day at the same time hoping to run into her, even though it was out of his way and not his normal spot.”
I thought back to the story, remembering her words. And how the “male lead” realized she was always there at nine in the morning on Fridays with her journal, jotting down her thoughts. And so, every Friday, they had coffee together, talked about life, and then they went their separate ways. Until one day he asked her out.
“It was three months until they went on a first date and he learned her last name.” He paused. “He’d canceled the date they’d planned and hadn’t told her why. Presumably because he panicked when he learned she was a Costa.” He finally looked up at me. “But I guess he’d already fallen for her and decided to see her anyway. And so they dated. And eventually, she fell in love, and that was when he told her he was married, and to Alice.”
“What happened?” I whispered.
“He promised her he was sleeping in a separate room from Alice and was miserable. It’d been an arranged marriage, and he feared his father-in-law, and he didn’t know what to do.” He shook his head. “But Bianca still ended things. And then in the unedited story, she wrote the ending she hoped for, that they bumped into each other years later and he was divorced.”
“And it became a second-chance romance.” Only, in real life, she never had that chance. “You blame him for her death now, don’t you?” Had he been honest with her from the start, she’d more than likely have survived. “Does that mean you want revenge?” Is the past not behind us?
“Bianca wrote the ending she wished she had because she really loved him. Hoped she’d have another chance with him one day.” His eyes fell closed as if visualizing his sister’s words. “The last line in her story, what the guy said to the woman years later when they bumped into each other, was, ‘Let me love you. If you give me a second chance, I’ll spend my life proving I’m worthy of it.’”
“That was the original title of her story.” I let go of a shaky exhale as he opened his eyes. “‘Let Me Love You.’”
“So, as much as I want to kill him, I know she’d never want me to do that. And he was willing to die so I could kill Alice.” He let go of a heavy breath, took my wine from me, then set both glasses down. “So no, I’m going to show mercy—again.” His chiseled jaw relaxed, and his gaze softened. “I love you, and after today, I know I’m finally ready to move forward.”
“You’re finally ready to let me love you,” I whispered, more as a statement than a question, knowing those words now had new meaning for him. For us.
“Yes,” he firmly said, and he reached up and looped my arms over his shoulders, linking my wrists behind his neck.
“Then maybe we skip to the epilogue?”
“I don’t know, I think we might have one more chapter in us before we get there.”
“My chef. My hero. And my writer. You have a way with words, just like she did.” I drew myself closer to him, feeling his body respond to me.
“Mm.” He brought his mouth near mine. “The only story I want to write is ours.”
THIRTY-SIX
Enzo
We’d made love. Soft and slow. Sensual and passionate.
Her whisper of, “I love you,” as I’d plunged into her had rattled free emotions locked within my chest I hadn’t realized had been stuck there.
But with my girl naked and tangled in the sheets on my hotel bed right now, I was ready to take her how I knew she wanted next. Hot and dirty.
“We skipped a few bases in taking things slow.” She teased her tongue along the seam of her lips while circling her erect nipple with her nail.
“I was never much of a baseball player. Don’t know the rules.” I took my heavy cock in my hand, stroking myself in preparation to go again. I’d given myself a ten-minute break. A cold slice of pizza chased down by wine as an energy reboot. I was prepared to join her, but my phone buzzing on the nightstand had her gaze flying that way. “Ignore it.”
