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“Wonderful words of wisdom, Father,” Eric smirked.
His stomach fell when the reminder of his title left his brother’s mouth. It was the cue he should have needed to walk away, but his conscience, and the love that he would always harbor for Emelia, wouldn’t let him.
He winced at a kick to his shin. “Lucia asked you a question,” Eric told him, annoyance clear in his voice.
“Sorry. I zoned out.” He faced Lucia.
“I was just asking if your breakfast was okay.” She smiled.
“Mmm,” he mumbled around his mouthful of the French toast. Once he’d swallowed it down with coffee, he replied, “This is great. Thanks for making my favorite, and no one makes French toast like you do.”
“Thank you.” Lucia beamed at his compliment, her hand sliding into his father’s.
“I say it as it is.” He finished his breakfast and finally met Emelia’s gaze full on. “Can we talk soon?”
Emelia hooded her eyes and nodded in response.
He didn’t miss the look that passed over Lucia’s face, or the frown that marred her brow as her worried gaze stayed on her daughter.
Eric cleared his throat. “Lucia, are you both sure that having the wedding here is going to work? We don’t want to stop business.”
Dante sighed at Eric’s abrupt change of subject, but, at least, his brother had snagged Lucia’s attention.
“Don’t you dare think about having your wedding anywhere else, unless Sylvia wants it where she grew up. But I’d be insulted otherwise.” She raised a brow and waited for Eric to agree.
“Don’t worry. I just wanted to check before Sylvia finalized the invitations.”
Dante tuned out the banter about weddings and when he met Emelia’s gaze, he indicated with his head to follow him out.
She nodded in acknowledgement.
Chapter Sixteen
Not having any privacy in the house, the only place that Dante could think of was his bedroom to talk to Emelia. They certainly needed privacy, he just wasn’t sure how wise it was.
Wise or not, that’s where he led Emelia to.
His room was like the others in the house, and he had his own bathroom. He had a large king-sized bed that took up a lot of the space, but he had a large fitted closet down one side of the bedroom with built in drawers. His favorite comfy reclining chair took up one corner of the room, close to his bed, which was where he’d spend many a night, reading or on his laptop while he prepared sermons.
The room was just fine for what he used it for, but, with Emelia in the room, it seemed to shrink.
While she stood
at the bedroom window looking down to the courtyard below, he admired her and felt pain lance through his heart at the thought of her belonging to another man when she was his.
But she isn’t yours . . .
Emelia’s dark hair flowed down her back in long, glossy, black waves that his fingers itched to touch. So he shoved his hands into his pockets and dropped to the edge of the bed.
“Em, will you sit?” he asked.
Without saying a word, she took a seat in his chair and met his gaze. Although her eyes looked wary, he noticed longing as well.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled, then snapped them open and watched her. He decided to be blunt, and admitted, “I remember your touch...your hands...your mouth.”
She flushed, but held his gaze, so he continued, “I...I released in your mouth.” He clenched his fists as his own words left his mouth, and his arousal threatened to cut off circulation. He only hoped that she hadn’t noticed.
He wanted to pull her close when her eyes glazed with tears, but he forced himself to stay put. He rested his elbows on his knees and let his hand hang between his thighs. He wanted her to think he was relaxed when he was anything but.
