His eyes move in the slightest of eye rolls as if he’s completely exasperated. I step away as he tries to reach for me.
“You are my wife, Francesca. You’re my responsibility to keep safe and I can’t do that if you’re flying around in a deathtrap all day long. Since you don’t seem to have enough common sense to stay on the ground, I’m going to make sure you stay there.”
Oh…boy. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I cross my arms over my chest and think about what to say that won’t result in me totally losing my cool.
“Here’s the deal, husband. I can see the twisted love logic you’re operating under. But you need to straighten it out before you talk to me like that again, or I’ll gladly spend the rest of this pregnancy in New Orleans with Livvie, riding airboats and hunting alligators every day.”
Dante is unamused. “Why don’t you value yourself?”
“What the hell does that mean?” So much for keeping my cool.
“You’re pregnant—yet you were working in a diner, eating garbage food—”
“I only just found out—”
“You could have anything you want, yet you insist on rejecting all of my attempts to make your life easy. You don’t have to hustle, Frankie. You don’t have to work. Can’t you just relax and…be a housewife? Be a mom? What’s so wrong with that?”
I silently count to three before I open my mouth again.
“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with it. For other women.” I step closer. “Dante, Idovalue myself. I know what I can contribute to this world.You’rethe one who doesn’t see it.”
He looks past me and smooths his tie in the mirror one last time. “We’re going to be late,” he says, turning on his heel and walking out the door.
Letting out a sigh, I give my reflection one last look. My slinky, pale lavender evening gown—my favorite color—flows over my body like a dream, but I swear I can see the fabric clinging to the tiniest hint of a baby bump across my middle. There’s a baby in there. It still surprises me sometimes. I grab my wrap and my handbag and follow my obnoxious husband to the car waiting outside.
* * *
The restaurant has been closedto the public, of course, to accommodate our private party. The moment we step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the rich scents wafting out from the kitchen—roasted garlic bread, pesto, something…meaty. Objectively, I know these are mouthwatering smells, but they hit me like an assault. My stomach does an impressive somersault, and I pull my hand from Dante’s arm and excuse myself to visit the restroom.
“Don’t be long,” he warns. “We have people to greet.”
Right. Not my top priority. My main focus for the night is to not throw up on anyone important or dangerous.
The posh ladies’ room has two stalls with frosted glass doors and an Italian marble double sink with an elaborate Venetian mirror, two additional full-length mirrors flanking it on either side. A diffuser fills the air with some kind of cloying floral fragrance that almost has me spewing before I can safely lock myself in one of the stalls.
I dig out the silver flask of cold tummy tea I brought in my purse and swig half of it down, praying it will work. And fast.
A few minutes later I hear the restroom door open, followed by the click, click of heels on the floor. Finally feeling less nauseous, I screw the top back onto the flask and exit the stall.
The woman turns.
Fucking lovely. It’s Jessica, fixing her lipstick in the mirror. Of course. If I do throw up tonight, I vow it will be on this woman.
She raises a brow as she spots the flask in my hand.
“Oh, Frankie. Are things really that bad with Dante?”
“Please do fuck directly off,” I tell her as I set the flask on the vanity and wash my hands.
“I’m not going anywhere,Francesca,” she says in a mocking tone. “My career, my future, is with Bellanti. I’ve put years of my life into that winery. And no drunk whore is going to run me off with a bad attitude and some spicy vocabulary.”
With that, she gives me a smirk and flounces her way to the door.
“I’m having his baby.”
Jessica freezes mid-step. When she turns around, I can clearly see the hurt on her face.
Her eyes drop to the flask. “Well then—”
