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“Oh, God, please don’t look so sorry for me,” she groans, shooing me towards the door.
“You and Elio are a lot alike, you know,” I tell her as I let her usher me into the hallway and down the stairs.
Valentina laughs. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”
“It is,” I say instantly.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Valentina produces a few pairs of shoes from the case she brought. We settle on a pair of blood-red pumps to match the lipstick, as well as diamond-and-ruby studs and a matching pendant. After I’m fully ready to go, she starts putting all the wedding stuff away, but then seems to give up.
“I’m just gonna leave this stuff here,” she says. “Now that I know you want to help with the planning, I’ll have to come back again anyways.”
“Sounds good. I-”
A noise from across the main floor of the house cuts me off. It’s the sound of a door opening. I lean around the kitchen island to see Elio striding from his office.
Like I’m drawn by marionette strings, I move out from behind the kitchen island without conscious thought. There’s an irresistible pull towards him that I can’t ignore or even try to fight.
Elio falters slightly when he sees me. But maybe he feels that pull too, because he starts walking again, faster this time, heading straight for me with hunger in his eyes.
Valentina says a quiet goodbye to me and leaves.
And then it’s just Elio and me.
If I thought my whole body felt like a raw nerve after the waxing, it’s ten times worse now. The buzz of pain is still present along my skin, but now there’s this tight, hot bundling in my belly that only adds to the overwhelm. I feel giddy and nearly nauseous when I look at him, when I take in the black-clad bulk of his body, smell the heady spice of his cologne.
He hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just staring at me like he can’t tell if he wants to hug me or eat me.
“You look nice,” I blurt in the silence that throbs between us.
God, what a bland word. Nice. There’s nothing nice about Elio, not even how he looks right now. He’s dark, devastating, beautiful the way a blade is. But I’m not articulate enough, or maybe not brave enough, to say any of that aloud. So ‘nice’ it is, I guess, even though it doesn’t come close to describing the luxurious fit of his all-black suit, the clean shave of his hard jaw, the thick and swept-back hair, the arresting embers of his eyes. I barely even see his scars anymore.
“And you look like a fucking angel,” he says so intensely that he nearly sounds angry. The leather of his fingertips glides to my collarbone. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He turns to walk towards the door. I catch his unsplinted hand between both of mine. He halts and turns back towards me with a questioning look.
“I just… I just wanted to say thank you. For that gift you left for me.”
“You already thanked me on the phone.”
“I know,” I reply. “But that’s not the same. I just… I don’t think you know how much that meant to me.”
“I know, Songbird.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Do you have any photos of your mom?” I ask him.
There’s a flicker of emotion behind his eyes that he instantly shuts down.
“No.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. So I just nod and give his hand another squeeze before letting go. Then I put my hands on either side of his jaw and tug him down. I press a very soft kiss to his cheek. Despite how gentle I am, it’s like I’ve electrified him. I feel the muscles and tendons jump in his jaw and neck beneath my fingers.
“I don’t have a gift for you,” I say as I let him go. “I forgot what day it was today.”
