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I lift my eyebrows, and she cups a hand around her face. I can see her suck a breath in, blow it out. She moves her hand and blinks up at me. “I’m at your house.” Her voice is a raspy whisper, and her cheeks are blazing red again.
“It’s not my house,” I cut in, smiling—because my heart’s sort of pounding.
“Summer house.”
“Just an old cabin.” My lips twitch.
“I’m at your cabin,” she whispers—she gets another big, deep breath—“because I couldn’t stay at mine.” Her eyes well as her gaze holds mine. “I wanted to see you. Again. And…I know it’s risky. I don’t even know if I can trust you…really.” Her lips tremble. “But I want to. It’s not logical. Nothing about this is. But this is the one chance I have to…be around you.” Her eyes tear up so much, I think she’s gonna cry, but her mouth does something—she presses her lips flat—and she doesn’t. “I thought how you got that quiet cabin you used to say you wanted. And there is no one here to see us.” She nods at my couch. “We could sit under a blanket. No parents would ask where our hands are.”
I put one of mine on her shoulder. “You know I’m okay, right? I’m fine.”
She nods, looking teary.
“You know you don’t have to trust me. Don’t trust anybody, tesoro. Questo è il modo più sicuro.”
She nods, so I know she understood my warning. “What is the point of tonight, for you, when tomorrow you can never see me again,” I ask in a whisper.
She replies, “Stasera è abbastanza.” Tonight is enough.
“No, non è abbastanza.”
I can see her eyes asking their questions—do I really mean that?—so I step toward her, wrap an arm around her back, and gently close the space between us. Just one arm, but it’s a hard hug—firm, undoubting. Just so that she understands it’s not really a risk to be here. If she wants to be here, I won’t have her worried, feeling like she’s taking chances.
“Anche un mostro può essere un angelo per una notte.”
She hugs me tight. “I don’t think you are a monster.”
I hug her back, and go on speaking in Italian. It feels somehow less direct than English. “Why is there no one else for the beautiful angel?” I ask, lightly clutching her chin so her brown eyes are forced to find mine. “Such a perfect angel, and she wants to dine with me?”
I’m trying to tease her, trying to make her smile or laugh—one of the awkward little laughs I saw her do sometimes on her campaign trail. Instead she bites down on her lower lip, and I can tell she’s half an inch from crying.
“Nessuna tristezza, bellissimo angelo.” I lean down and kiss her soft cheek. “No more tears. You want to eat pizza with me, and I want to have some lemon cake with you. No more tears, and no parents.” I arch a brow, and she looks unsure, so I help her out of her coat.
“No parents,” she murmurs as I hang it on a hook by the door.
My mom’s been dead three years. She had a long run with the cancer, and a long remission. She died happy, married to a good dude she met when her cat escaped and ran across the street, through his front door.
I pull Elise in for another quick hug. Her arms around my waist squeeze back.
“You’re sure you’re good with this?” She looks up at me. “You don’t mind a surprise guest?”
“Don’t be giving me the stranger schtick now, la mia rosa. You already went out on the limb and walked down to the edge where it’s bending.”
“And now I’m whipping in the wind,” she whispers.
“Nah.” My palm smooths her hair. “Now I’ve got you.”
I take the bag cooler into the kitchen, and she follows. She must be hella nervous, because once we get in there, she can hardly look at me. She’s got her hands clasped, hand-wringing style. When I pull out the tinfoil-wrapped boxes, her cautious eyes meet mine. “I got the pizza from my favorite place.”
I grin as I unwrap it. “Pie in the Sky. That’s my favorite here, too. I’ll eat some supreme.”
“The other one is cheese,” she laughs. “Because I wasn’t sure.”
She watches as I unwrap brownies and then lemon cake that’s packaged like it came from Janie’s, the best little hole-in-the-wall bakery.
I close my eyes, lifting it up near my nose and inhaling. “Smells amazing.”
Then I set it down and turn to her. I squeeze her shoulders gently, run my hands down her upper arms.
She looks down.
“You embarrassed?”
“Yes. Of course.” Her eyes flicker to mine.
“What reason do you have to be embarrassed?” I frown as she bites her cheek.
“You were my person. And you…still seem like my person. Even though you’re not.” She’s speaking in a whisper.
