“Let me get this.” A second deep voice doesn’t exactly ask for permission before stealing my cat.
Then I spin around and feel the weight of the travel tote leave my arm.
“Way too much for a lady to carry,” chuckles my latest ‘helper’.
Somehow I’m surrounded by men. I don’t know where they came from but they have cowboy hats, muscled forearms and dark eyes flashing with mischief.
Recognition spikes.
Of course I know who they are, even if I can’t tell right away which one is which.
I’m only able to snatch a handful of quick glimpses as I battle the wind, my hair and general bewilderment. It’s still enough to feel grudgingly awed.
Time has heaped a lot of rewards on the Tempesta brothers.
They were always tall. Now they are taller.
They were always good looking. They’ve catapulted to ridiculous status.
There’s not a flaw in sight. With similar strong jawlines, defined cheekbones, olive-toned complexions and powerful frames, there’s no hiding the fact that they are brothers.
But no one would guess they are Mafia princes. They’ve broken from the trend of dark suits and expensive shoes in favor of rugged cowboy charm with boots, hats and blue jeans. Ranching life is serious for them.
The three brothers who accosted me on the tarmac now stand back to observe me with impenetrable expressions. I can’t put my finger on the reason, but I feel as if I’m about to become a source of endless amusement for them.
“HEY!” Angelo’s bark demands my attention.
He stands roughly twenty feet away, his posture broadcasting impatience as he waves me over, presumably to meet the man at his side.
I start to take a step in that direction and then change my mind.
I’m tired. I’m pissed. I have no clue what to expect next and now a bunch of men are staring at me.
If that jackass brother of mine has something to say then let him walk over here and say it. I cross my arms and stay rooted in place.
Angelo lowers his arm and gives me a ‘What the fuck?’ shrug.
My eyes swing to the other man.
What happens next is both invisible and electric.
I’m reminded of a childhood visit to Newport Beach where my parents had rented a summer house right on the water. We had stopped for lunch at a fish taco place and I elbowed Gabe to show him that the actor from our favorite show about a high school detective agency had just walked in.
This sudden, powerful rush is not unlike the surge of awed shock in that fish taco shop. Standing within arm’s reach was a real flesh and blood person who had lived rent free in my head for ages.
Naturally, Julian Tempesta isn’t a celebrity. And I’m no longer a wistful preteen with a crush. The flutter in my belly has everything to do with the fact that Julian once risked his life to save mine. I was nobody to him and yet he shielded me from death. He did his best to keep me from seeing the horrors that will haunt me no matter where I am or how many years pass. Maybe an experience like that cements you to the one you share it with, whether you like it or not.
Our eyes lock across the short distance. The sudden bone-deep tremor is inexplicable. I knew I’d be seeing him and yet somehow I’m unprepared.
With effort, I shake the feeling off.
Julian leaves Angelo behind without a word and heads this way. His walk is unhurried, his strides long. Angelo is forced to start trotting to keep up.
Julian doesn’t halt until he’s inches away. At five-foot-four I’m not really short but I need to tip my head back to see his face. This feels like a disadvantage.
There’s a trace of dark shadow on Julian’s jaw, hinting that he started the day clean shaven but a rough beard that needs to be tamed daily is starting to win. I bet he has the ability to be fully bearded within a week. He wears a grey button up shirt with the sleeves rolled over his strapping forearms and I force my eyes to quit checking out the impressive way he fills out his jeans.
“Welcome to Wyoming, Cecilia.” His voice is like melted butterscotch spiked with whiskey.
