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Giulio
As I mixed dough for the pasta, I shook my head at myself. What was I doing here? Making dinner, like we were a couple?
I should leave. I didn’t owe him anything, and I would find a way to return his money. We’d said everything that needed saying.
So, why was I rolling out pasta and playing house?
Because he looks terrible. Because I’m a fool. Because I miss him.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Wiping my hands on a towel, I checked the caller. It could be Benito with an update on things in Málaga.
Frankie’s name appeared on the screen.
I considered not answering, but maybe she could talk some sense into me since I’d clearly lost my mind. “Pronto.”
“Well?” Her voice was breathless, excited. “How did Scotland go?”
Now that I was no longer on the run, Frankie and I talked every day. Often more than once. So she knew of my plans to confront Alessio about the money. “I am in Scotland and it is still going.”
“What does that mean, still going? Are you with him right now?”
“Do you think I would answer if he was here?”
“So tell me what happened so far.”
As I finished the dough, I filled her in with a brief version of events since I arrived in Canna. “He’s gone to find wine and I’m making spaghetti for supper like a . . .”
“Like a man in love?”
“Stai zitto!” I snapped, telling her to shut up. “I was going to say like an idiot.”
“Stop. Zia has rubbed off on you. It’s sweet that you like to feed people. How does he look?”
I rolled my eyes, though she couldn’t see me. “I haven’t noticed.”
She laughed. “Oh, bullshit. You know you checked out every inch of that tall dark snack when you first saw him today.”
I had, but I’d never admit it. “He’s thin.”
“Which is why you’re feeding him. God, you’re adorable.”
“I am hanging up.”
“Don’t you dare! I told your father where you were going, by the way.”
Oh, shit. “Why? For fuck’s sake, Frankie—”
“You weren’t returning his calls. He rang Benito, who lied and said you had the flu and couldn’t pick up. Fausto wasn’t buying it, so I came clean. I’m sorry, G.”
I scowled at the phone. “Damn it, matrigna.”
“I know, I know. I swear, I don’t tell him everything. But I hate when he gets worried and he gets that little wrinkle between his brows. Then he paces and sulks. I usually have to distract him with sex, but because of the pregnancy—”
“Basta!” The last thing I wished to hear about was her sex life with my father. “What did he say about me coming to see Alessio.”
“Nothing.”
That was bad. My father had something to say on nearly every subject, especially when it pertained to me. “Nothing?”
