Tomasso catches my look, and he smirks. “Waiting for your wife to roll out the welcome mat?”
I shoot him a look, and he laughs.
He starts in the opposite direction. “I’ve got business.”
“Your harem?” I ask dryly.
He only smirks and vanishes down the opposite path.
I should shower, freshen up. But I have to see Liliana first. It's either that or go mad. I've been deprived of her presence all day, and seeing her is the only thing that'll cure the ache in me. Knowing she'll be in the garden at this time, I head in that direction.
I get to the garden, and there she is.
She's bent low, hands wrist-deep in soil. She's wearing one of her soft dresses that clings to her in the places I'd like to refamiliarize myself with again. Her sleeves are rolled up. Her glorious hair falls loose, catching the misty light, and my body stirs hard. The ache I felt earlier intensifies, spreading through me.
She’s unaware of me, her hands coaxing life from the earth. I stay rooted, drinking in the sight like a man too long in drought.
Behind me, I hear a familiar voice.
“Why are you watching your wife like a thief?”
I turn. Mamma.
I haven’t seen her since the day after the wedding.
She looks radiant, but her smile is all mischief.
“You look well,” I say.
“And you look smitten.”
I ignore her. “When did you arrive?”
“Hours ago. I’ve been with Liliana,” She pauses, dusting something off her crisp shirt. “Did you know she’s knitting you a scarf?”
My brows lift. “She is?”
Her lips twitch. “She doesn't say, but I guessed.”
My chest tightens as warmth floods me. She's knitting a scarf for me. That has to mean something. She's opening up.
My mother is watching me, her eyes annoyingly tender. The smile on my face slips. “Thank you for spending time with my wife,” I say sarcastically.
She laughs. “Giovanni Renzetti, you're jealous.” Her tone is full of wonder.
I shrug. “I should be the one spending time with her. You’re stealing her from me.”
“Well, you’re busy playing Don.” She laughs.
She steps past me, approaching Liliana with the ease of someone who’s done this before, someone who’s begun to love her in the quiet, seamless way a mother does. She bends slightly, taps her shoulder gently, then signs, Your husband is here.
Liliana straightens, her hands still in the soil. Her head turns slowly, and when her gaze finds mine, something clenches inside me. Her eyes are wide and startlingly blue in the sunlight. There’s nowhere for her to run now. Not with my mother standing beside her, not with me watching her like I’ve done a hundred times since she became mine.
I move forward, drawn by something instinctive. Familiar heat coils low in my belly, building with every step I take. She’s on her knees in the dirt, a smear of soil across her cheekbone. She looks wild. Bare. Beautiful, in a way that punches the breath from my lungs.
She doesn’t move as I stop in front of her. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. I offer her my hand. Her fingers tremble just slightly as they slide into mine.
I pull her to her feet, steadying her by the waist. I let my hand settle there, just above her hip. Her skin is warm. Her heartbeat is frantic. I lower my head and press a kiss to her forehead. It's slow and deliberate. I let it linger longer than necessary. She smells like crushed rosemary and sun-warmed earth. I inhale her.
