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“I know.” And I did. What happened between us couldn’t be fixed. He’d been very clear about that.
He shut off the water and took a clean towel out of a drawer. Then he patted my hands off gingerly. “Allora, do you plan on living on this farm for the rest of your life?”
“I like it here. What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything is wrong with it. Sit down and let me put on the bandages.”
We didn’t speak as he put ointment on my cuts and then wrapped my hands in bandages. When he finished, he shoved aside the box of supplies and braced his hands on the counter. Tormented blue eyes locked with mine. “My whole life has been nothing but secrets, Alessio. It felt like you were the one thing I had that was true and honest. Except even that was a lie.”
Not breaking his stare, I gave him the truth for the last time. “I’m sorry. If I could go back and change it, I would.”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes. I watched his long fingers pull one out and put it to his lips. A flick of a lighter later and his cheeks hollowed, inhaling the nicotine and chemicals. White smoke filled the space between us. “I apologize for what I said in the hills that morning,” he said quietly. “About your parents.”
“I don’t need you and I don’t love you. Just like your parents.”
I lifted one shoulder. “It is true, no?”
“I shouldn’t have said it. I was trying to hurt you and I was angry.”
He stared out the farmhouse window and continued to smoke. Finally, he asked, “How are the sheep? Do they miss me?”
“I’ve been bulking them up. They were underfed. Too skinny.”
He flicked me a glance. “I could say the same about you.”
I didn’t respond. I knew I looked terrible. That was what misery and regret did to a person. Giulio was still gorgeous, though. Other than the smoking habit, he appeared exactly the same.
We sat in silence for what felt like eons as he finished his cigarette. There was a wall between us and I wasn’t sure how to tear it down. Or if I even could. I watched as the paper burned on his cigarette. What happened when he finished smoking? Would he leave?
The words tumbled out of my mouth. “Have dinner with me.”
Light blue eyes pinned me to the spot. “Here?”
“Sì, certo.”
“You cook?”
We both knew I wasn’t competent in the kitchen. Giulio had been the one to prepare most of our meals. “I can make scrambled eggs,” I said.
“With your bandaged hands?” He shook his head and the hint of a smile ghosted across his face. “And is this what you have been surviving on? Mamma mia. No wonder you are so skinny.”
Turning, he strode to the refrigerator and opened it. He pulled out eggs, butter and a hunk of Parmesan. A lemon that was starting to turn brown. “Garlic?”
“No.”
“What kind of red-blooded Sicilian doesn’t keep garlic in the house?” He rummaged through the cupboards and found a few seasonings. Flour. Jarred anchovies and a bottle of olive oil.
“Someone cleaned out the refrigerator and pantry after we left,” I offered as an explanation as he set everything on the island between us. “You are lucky I have even that.”
“If I am cooking for you, then open a bottle of wine.”
I scratched my jaw and wondered how to break the news. When I didn’t move, he stopped what he was doing. His expression turned wary. “Are you telling me there is no wine in this house?”
“Whoever came in . . . .”
“Took all my good wine? Ma dai, these Scots. Go.” He waved me away. “Go and find some wine, assassino. And tell Mrs. Campbell I want Italian wine, not French.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
