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“Sorry about that. Things aren’t going well for him over there, and he needs moral support.”
“You’re always there for them, aren’t you? Your family?”
He turned serious eyes on me and replied, “Always. Just like you are for your father.”
“Touché,” I murmured, touched that he realized the lengths I went to for my father. By linking the two, he was showing how similar we were in our loyalty.
Nicu broke the serious moment by returning to our original conversation with a ridiculous confession. “I’m a bit of a speed junkie. I like my cars fast, like my women.”
I rolled my eyes. “As much as I’d love to own the label, I’m not that fast.”
“You’re the perfect speed for me.”
“Oh my God, was that supposed to be a compliment?”
He lifted the ibric off the flame for a few seconds, letting the foam settle before returning it to the stove.
“Baby doll, I’ve given you more than a compliment. I’ve given you a nickname,” he said with a meaningful look.
That, he had. A warmth spread through my chest. Dammit, how did he manage to make me feel so weak around him?
Needing to break the intimate mood, I asked, “Do you like all your women fast? I can only imagine how many have traipsed through here.”
Jealousy shot through me at the thought that he’d made other women coffee the morning after, just as he was doing for me.
He poured the hot liquid into two small porcelain demitasse cups, the handles and lips dipped in gold paint. His cup had a tiny chip on the delicate gold of the handle.
Placing a cup and saucer near my hand on the table, he warned, “Don’t do that.”
A little frown creased my forehead.
“Do what?” I asked, feigning ignorance as I lifted the coffee cup to my lips. Tasting the dark, earthy flavor with hints of honey, I moaned.
“This is so good,” I gushed. I was already feeling better after downing an entire glass of water and taking the medication, but the first hit of this coffee was ambrosia.
“Glad you like it. I made it with a hint of sugar to balance out the bite in your personality,” he teased.
I shot him a caustic look, but pointedly ignored his cutting little comment. He might complain, but we both knew he liked my prickly side as much as I liked to turn it up for him.
“It’s divine,” I murmured gratefully as I took another delicious sip.
Sitting down beside me, he took a leisurely sip as well and returned to the topic at hand. “You mentioned other women to throw up a wall between us,” he chided softly. “I may have had my fair share of women, but I’m far from a manwhore. Romanians aren’t prudish. We’re not ashamed to enjoy sex. I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but I’ve never brought a woman home before, and I certainly don’t make a habit of preparing coffee for them, of cooking for them, or of taking care of them.” His voice lowered an octave. “Not in the ways I take care of you.”
My cheeks flushed hot. His little speech had softened me. I shifted in my seat a little, the tenderness of my behind a reminder of exactly the type of “care” he was referring to. Since yesterday, he was no longer letting me get away with anything, and I liked it.
“Really? That surprises me. You seemed to know your way around a woman’s backside.”
“I may have experimented a bit, but yesterday was about you.”
Again, a gooey warmth splashed across my chest. If he was trying to woo me and make me feel special, he was definitely on the right track. While I didn’t know exactly what he meant by experimentation, I truthfully didn’t want to delve deeper into Nicu’s past with other women. He’d called my bullshit when he accused me of bringing it up to throw up some distance between us.
It had also triggered the same weird Nicu-specific jealousy that occurred the night I met him, when the cocktail waitress flirted with him. I was aware of how ridiculous it was for me to be possessive of him, considering there was no chance it could last between us. I’d never felt this way about any of my other partners, but then again, why should I be surprised? Anything having to do with Nicu was different. He was like no other man I’d met before.
I finished my coffee and stood up to replenish my cup when he placed a hand on my forearm. Getting up, he brought the ibric from the stove and refilled my cup.
“I don’t have any ciorba de burta to help you get over your hangover, but I can make you eggs with tomatoes and peppers. How does that sound?”
“Sure, that’s perfect. Uh, what’s a chiorba di burbba, whaa?”
