By the time Peach and I dry off, get changed back into our clothes, and head to the kitchen, the table is already set, and the pizza guy is at the front door.
Romeo and Dante help the young guy carry all the food in, and I watch Dante pluck a few hundred-dollar bills out of his gold money clip and hand them over as a tip.
He always tips the staff well when he dines at La Riviera. I miss working there. I miss Massimo, Sonia, and the rest of the crew. I hope this mess is sorted out soon so I can go back to work.
I’ll forever be ashamed that I let Mick treat me the way he did, and I hate that my poor decisions unknowingly brought trouble to these people.
There are two high stacks of pizza boxes sitting on the kitchen island, which feels like serious overkill for the number of people here. Then again, I’ve seen how these people eat, lavishly, and with enough food present to feed a small Italian village.
Arabella’s busy transferring pasta dishes and salads onto serving trays, so when Lil’ Peach wanders over to her uncle and climbs onto his lap, I step further into the kitchen and offer to help.
Dante picks up one of the stacks of pizza boxes and sets it down in front of Dominic. Immediately, all the men crack up like he’s just delivered the punchline of the century.
“You’re a comedian,” Dominic grumbles, which only makes them laugh harder.
My gaze flickers to Arabella, and when she rolls her eyes, I know she’s not privy to the joke either.
It’s dark by the time we arrive home. We spent the whole day at the Mancinis. Peach was so exhausted she slept the entire drive back. The poor thing could barely keep her eyes open while I helped Dominic feed, bathe, and tuck her in to bed.
Arabella invited us to stay for dinner, but since Peach skipped her daytime nap, she was cranky as hell, so we figured it was better to leave. Arabella packed up some leftovers from lunch, which we had for dinner.
I sat on the side of the bath feeding her little spoonfuls of pasta, while her uncle washed all the chlorine and remaining sunscreen from her tiny body.
I jumped in the shower after that, and it wasn’t until I stripped off that I realised how sunburnt I was. It didn’t seem that bad earlier.
Now, under the bathroom light, I look like a damn tomato. I’m burnt from just above my elbows—right where my rashie ended—straight down to my hands. My face and the back of my neck aren’t much better, even though I wore a hat. That must be from the sun bouncing off the water, determined to cook me no matter how much I protected myself.
I’ve been sun smart ever since I first moved to Queensland and came home from the beach looking like a full-bodied lobster. The little blisters down my arms and torsoeventually merged into one big one, and then I passed out from heatstroke. I love the water, always have, but after that, it took me a while to work up the confidence to go back out in the sun.
My skin is fair, unlike Lucia’s and Arabella’s. They just seemed to get browner as the day went on. I slapped on sunscreen a few times today, but clearly not enough.
If I’d known I was going to end up like this, I would’ve asked Dominic to swing past the pharmacy on the way home so I could grab some aloe vera cream. I doubt anything would be open now.
Slipping into my underwear and pulling a loose satin nighty over my head, I go in search of Dominic to see if he has anything in the house I can use to cool my skin.
I find him in the kitchen, standing over the open pizza box, munching on a slice of cold pizza.
His eyes snap up to me, and he freezes mid-bite, his gaze dragging from my face down the length of my body in one slow, deliberate sweep.
I don’t usually walk around so scantily dressed, not since that first night when I found him in the kitchen in his underwear, but my skin is stinging too much to care.
I take a step closer and hold out my red arms. “Wouldn’t have any aloe vera cream on hand, would you?”
“Christ, Emily,” he grumbles, dropping his half-eaten piece of pizza back into the box and rounding the kitchen island. “Didn’t you put any sunscreen on today?”
“Twice,” I reply with a wince when his hand gently grasps my wrist.
“Shit.”
“If I’d known it was this bad, I would’ve asked you to stop so I could get something for it.”
“I don’t have any aloe vera cream. I think I have some Vaseline, though.”
I grimace. “Vaseline won’t help this.”
“Mrs B, the lady who used to watch Lil’ Peach, your tea-drinking soul sister, has an aloe vera plant in her garden. Would that help?’
“Tea-drinking soul sister,” I repeat with a snort.
