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“Oh, you’re going to make a toast.” I hold up my glass and wait for him to speak.
“To a wonderful future.” His eyes sparkle under the overhead lights. He moves his glass closer, and I tap mine against it.
“To a wonderful future.” As I take a sip, I find the smoothness of the drink amazing and sip a bit more than I normally would. “This is delicious. I had no idea scotch could taste this good.”
“I look forward to introducing you to all kinds of things you’ve never had before.” His smile dazzles me. Then he reaches up and pushes a lock of my hair away from my face.
I can’t help but find it odd that he’s talking about the future with me being a part of it. “You plan on keeping me around? Are you about to offer me a permanent place on your staff, Carlo?”
“No.” He takes a sip of his drink, then looks at the drink in my hand and wiggles his dark brows, urging me to drink too.
It’s delicious, so I indulge myself. “I shouldn’t be drinking. It’s going to be hard enough staying up so late to make sure everything is perfect.”
His eyes scan the room. “It looks great to me. All it needs is a bride and a groom, and we’re all set.”
“It’s far from being done.” I can’t expect him to understand how perfect everything has to be. “I’m trying to make sure your future wife is captivated by her wedding.”
“She will be.” He takes another drink while his eyes stay on me.
“Tell me about her,” I say, thinking he must want to talk. Surely, he’s feeling nervous about the fact that he’s going to get married very soon. “What made you fall in love with her?”
“She has a good heart, for one thing.” He looks away, his expression becoming vacant for a moment.
I can’t imagine what he’s thinking about. It most certainly has to do with the woman he’s marrying never being around. His marriage will be a lonely one if she continues choosing her career over her marriage.
“My mother always told me that things in one’s life must be prioritized in order of importance.” I smile as he turns his attention back to me. “What is your order of importance, Carlo?”
Raising his head while jutting out his chin proudly, he proclaims, “Family.”
“That’s the way my mother raised me as well. And within the family, there are prioritizations.” My eyes burn as I think about my mother and all the wise things she told me. “Mom was old-fashioned compared to my friends’ moms. She thought in old-world ways. But I have to admit that not only did I find her ideals to be important, but I believed in them too. And I still do.”
One dark brow rises, and a lopsided smile makes him look young and adorable. “Please tell me what you believe, my young Isabella.”
“My mother told me that there is a hierarchy within a family. First, above all else, the marriage is to be honored. It is the matriarch and the patriarch who not only create the family, physically speaking, but make the rules that the entire household must abide by. So, priority number one is to your spouse.”
Shaking his head, he laughs. “That’s an outdated conception, my sweet girl. Each person should have the same top priority, and it should not be another person—it should be yourself. If you can’t be true to yourself, honor yourself, and treat yourself with respect, then you can never give those things to anyone else. Not your spouse. Not your children. Not even your pets. Number one priority? Put yourself first.”
“That sounds selfish.” I sip on the drink and wonder if he’s right and my mother wrong. “Is a mother supposed to put herself above her children?” I think I’ve found a valid argument.
“Of course.”
I know men and women see parenthood in very different lights, but I can’t stop my eyes from rolling. “Spoken like a man. Any good mother puts the needs of her husband and children first.”
“That would leave her as the last priority. Why would anyone do that to themselves?” He takes a drink, draining his glass, then takes mine and fills them both before handing mine back to me. “I like this spirited conversation we’re having. I feel the alcohol has loosened your tongue.” He snaps his fingers. “Leave us.”
“They can’t!” I begin to argue, but he puts his finger to his lips. Lips that look as if they have been chiseled out of rose-colored marble but feel softer than goose-down pillows.
“They’re already gone.” He reaches out his hand to gesture to the now-empty ballroom. “Let’s put this theory of mine into practice, shall we? You have worked many hours today. You must be exhausted. Yet you keep working. Why is that?”
Laughing, I answer his ridiculous question. “Because you hired me to do a job. You are paying me to do a job. And I won’t be paid unless I do the job. That’s why I keep working even when exhaustion begs me to stop.”
This time, his eyes roll, and I think he must be drunk if he sees my work ethic as anything but self-prioritizing. “You don’t feel that you should tell me to go fuck myself?”
“As if I would ever do such a thing!” I say with a laugh, understanding now that he’s drunk.
“You should have told me those exact words when I made an unreasonable demand of you.” Leaning forward in the chair, his eyes somewhat glassy, he whispers, “If I had told you to go up to my bedroom and undress, then lie on my bed and wait for me, what would you have said?”
Heat jets through my body as if the sun lit up inside me. “Carlo!”
