We’re heading towards the checkout with a basket full of all the essentials. Bread, eggs, milk, baby formula, jars of pureed fruits, and some frozen dinners, because I can’t cook for shit. There is also a box of nappies balancing on top of the pram.
Peach is grinding her gums away on a teething ringwhen I spot someone I wasn’t expecting to run into here. Fucking Emily, the waitress from La Riviera. The blonde-haired beauty who has one of those faces you don’t forget easily, no matter how hard you try.
She’s standing by the registers, flipping through a magazine, that same easy smile tugging at her lips, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
The woman I’ve been trying not to think about, trying not to want, is suddenly right in front of me, and every bit of discipline I’ve built starts to crumble.
My first instinct is to turn around and walk the other way, but I’m no fucking coward. With a bit of luck, she won’t even notice me or remember who I am. Just because she made an impression on me doesn’t mean I did the same for her.
I can’t even pinpoint what it is about her that gets under my skin. Yeah, she’s beautiful, achingly so, but I’ve seen enough of that to know it doesn’t mean much. Most women who look like her only shine on the surface, and I’m done with that kind of bullshit. I don’t do shallow and fake. Not anymore.
I grumble under my breath when I notice there are only two checkouts open, so I head towards the one that is furthest away from her. I’m still too close, but there’s not much I can do about that. Lil’ Peach is due for a bottle and a nap, so I need to get home before all hell breaks loose.
With considerable effort, I keep my gaze fixed ahead, resisting the persistent urge to look her way. She looks stunning today. Her long golden hair is loose, brushing the small of her back, and don’t even get me started on those skintight jeans she’s wearing. She’s temptation wrapped in denim … a temptation I shouldn’t want, and one I definitely don’t need.
My hope of leaving without being noticed goes out the window when Peach throws one of those colourful fabricbooks out of the pram and begins to whine. She leans over the side with grabby hands, waiting for me to pick it up.
Before I can reach it, a hand swoops down and retrieves the book. I hear a soft voice say, “Here you go, cutie pie,” and when I glance down, I see Emily holding it out to Peach.
My chest immediately tightens when her attention shifts up, and she looks straight at me. Those pretty blue eyes widen just a fraction before her lips curl into that same easy, infuriating smile.
“Mr Rizzo,” she says.
I find myself frowning when she calls me that. I’m surprised she even remembered my name.
“Dominic,” I growl in reply. Mr Rizzo reminds me of my dad, and he was a cunt.
“Dominic,” she repeats, and I can’t help noticing the way my name rolls off her tongue, soft and deliberate, catching me off guard. For a split second, the world narrows to the sound of her voice and the intensity of her gaze. It’s a strange, unsettling feeling. “I don’t know if you remember me … my name is Emily. I work at La Riviera. You came into the restaurant a few months ago.”
Five and a half months ago, to be exact, but who’s counting?
I nod once and grunt, neither confirming nor denying whether I remember her or not.
She’s wearing a short-sleeved blue blouse, which only seems to accentuate the colour of her eyes, and I’m pleased to see there doesn’t appear to be any marks on her today.
A faint pink blush climbs her neck at my gruffness, and I catch the quick intake of breath she tries to hide by clearing her throat and changing the subject.
“So … you have a daughter?” she asks, her eyes flicking back to Lil’ Peach in the pram.
I glance down at my niece, who’s babbling happily andclutching the soft fabric book Emily handed back. A small smile tugs at my lips despite myself.
“Niece,” I say shortly, my tone rough around the edges.
Her blush deepens as she crouches slightly to meet Peach at eye level. “She’s adorable,” Emily murmurs, holding out a finger for Peach to grab. “It’s sweet of you to babysit her.”
“I’m her guardian,” I find myself admitting.
Her eyebrows jump briefly in surprise before she quickly schools her expression. “Guardian,” she repeats. “That’s a big responsibility.”
I shrug. “Someone’s got to make sure she’s safe.”
Emily glances from Peach to me, and for a heartbeat, I catch a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe respect—before her plump lips curve up again.
“Well, she’s lucky to have you.”
I grunt, turning my attention back to Peach as she pokes at the fabric book with tiny fingers, but I can’t ignore the warmth that creeps up my chest at Emily’s words. It’s irritating. I hate that I even told her. I’m not even sure why I did. I don’t let people in. Not like this. Not anymore.
This conversation is over, at least from my side. I clear my throat, take a step forward to put a little distance between us, and start unloading my basket onto the conveyor belt.
