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“I don’t know that they’re all shitty people. My brothers aren’t. My aunt isn’t. But otherwise, in my circle, money is more than just what you use to live. It’s your armor, it’s your power, your weapon—”
“You make life sound like a war,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” he asks.
“I mean, I don’t think so and I’ve had some battles, but no. In general, I’m just trying to do better than the people before me so that the people after me have something worth taking care of, too,” I say.
“That’s all I want, too,” he says and runs an absent hand up and down the small of my back. His hand is heavy and warm, and I start to feel the first call of sleep.
“The lady at the table told us your family is a big deal in Houston. What for?”
He takes a minute, his hands tightening their grip on my body. He hums contemplatively and sighs deeply before he speaks.
“I’m very wealthy. I have been since I was twenty-five. That alone makes me someone whose name people know. My father died when I was fourteen, and I went to live with my aunt.” His lips twitch slightly like he’s in pain.
“Was this in Texas?” I ask him gently.
“No, it was in Positano.” He runs a hand through his thick, curly hair.
“Where’s that?” I ask.
“Italy,” he says.
My fingers drift down his face when I see the flash of pain in his eyes that the memory of it brings.
“That’s a long way from home,” I say.
“It was. And when I got here, I was so angry. At everyone. I didn’t really know my aunt, and I resented having to come and live with her. I behaved like such a jerk. She sent me to a boarding school after I broke a window in her neighbor’s house and refused to apologize,” he laughs.
“She kicked you out?” I ask
“Yeah.” He scratches his chin; the scrape of stubble under his nails vibrates against my ear, and I snuggle closer to him. His body is so hard, but it yields where I need it to, and I’ve never been more comfortable in my whole life. “We were at real odds with each other. She didn’t know what to do with me, and I didn’t know what to do with all of my anger,” he says.
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“How was boarding school?” I ask.
“Hell. I didn’t speak Italian well; I was a loner, and the upperclassmen smelled blood in the water. And almost right away, they tried to make me their grunt. And that wasn’t happening,” he says coldly. I like that rough edge in his voice. I shiver and move closer to him.
“So, what’d you do?” I ask.
“The first one who got close enough to me got a bloody nose for his trouble,” he says with grudging pride.
I nudge him and tighten the hands that I have wrapped around his waist. He’s talking about it like it was no big deal. I can tell that now, it’s not. But I can’t imagine what he must have been feeling then. My heart aches for him. How can someone have so much and yet …
“So, you fought your way through school?” I ask him.
“Didn’t get the chance. I was expelled when I broke the French ambassador’s son’s cheekbone,” he says grimly.
“Holy shit.” I grimace.
He starts to pull his hand back.
I hold his arms in place to stop him. “Please don’t stop touching me; I like it. A lot,” I say quietly.
His arms tighten around me, and I relax again.
“Did you hear about my ex? I’m assuming that gossip has made its way here,” he says.
