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Mine raise as well.
Again, he swears in Italian. “It’s rude not to eat something that’s been specially prepared for you.”
“How do I know you didn’t poison it or something?” My eyes narrow at the yellow blob, raking over the red and green spots poking through. Though my stomach growls in anticipation, I cross my hands over it and push the desire down.
“Juliet, I’m not gonna kill you. Good Lord, you’d think I’m still in the fucking business or something.”
“Sorry for being cautious.”
He sighs, nodding as if he understands. As if he knows more about me than he should. “I heard about what happened at The Bar. Your boy caused quite a ripple in the underground defending your honor.”
I scoff, picking up the fork and poking around at the frittata, wishing he’d just go away. If Caroline doesn’t want me at the birth of her child, fine, but did she need to get me a babysitter?
Okay, so she got Poppy one. Same difference, when the man won’t leave me the fuck alone.
“He’s not my boy,” I say, avoiding the rest of his sentence. “He’s notmyanything.”
Propping his elbow on the counter, Orlando leans down, resting his chin in his hand. “That’s not what he’s telling people.”
My stomach does a little flop at that, the blood in my veins singing at the idea of Kieran Ivers considering me something more than a piece of ass that lets him use me however he pleases.
While I don’t need the title, now weeks after our little fling first began that afternoon at his cottage, it’s nice to pretend I matter. Nice to feel like more than a warm body, especially when he’s become such an integral part of my daily life—we text through the day and spend most nights together.
By most counts, that would constitute a relationship. At theveryleast, a friends-with-benefits type deal. And sometimes, when he tucks me into his side as we drift off to our dreamscape, after he’s fucked me until I can’t see straight, it’s easy to make believe that there’s more to us. Layers we’ve yet to discover.
But I know that’s not what this is. Sexual compatibility does not necessarily a relationship make.
Absently, I finger my locket at the base of my collarbone; the cold metal is a stark reminder that there’s a countdown on our time together, an end looming closer and closer with each passing day.
I got what I wanted.
Why does that make me feel so empty?
Orlando shifts, drawing my attention from the impending spiral of despair I can feel myself slipping into; tentatively, I take a bite of the dish, savoring the explosive flavors as they hit my tongue but trying to stifle my reaction to keep him at bay.
It doesn’t work. A grin curves over his lips, making the slight cleft in his chin disappear. “You love it!”
I dive in for another bite, chewing carefully. “It’s not horrible.”
He guffaws, tipping his head back and then snapping forward, leaning to inspect Poppy; she shifts, moving her chubby arms as she stretches, but then she stills, unperturbed by his sudden outburst. “I’ll be sure to tell my ninety-year-old mother her traditional Italian recipe is ‘not horrible.’”
Devouring the rest of the plate as my hunger kicks in, I finish in a few bites and push the dish back, patting my stomach. “See, I knew it wasn’t you cooking. You were channeling her.”
Nodding, he takes the plate and sets it in the sink, folding his arms across his chest and pressing his backside into the counter. “You’re probably right. Her and my late wife.”
A knot forms in my chest, pushing my organs aside. “Did she cook a lot?”
From what I’ve gathered from my sister’s occasional stories—usually initiated by too much wine or when she cooks something with a Danish origin—she died when Elia was young, and it’s not something either Montalto ever really talks about.
And yet, here Orlando is, nodding his assent, opening his mouth like he’s ready. “That she did. Was fantastic, too. Could make even stale food taste fresh. That’s where Elia gets it from, his mother and grandmother. I never had that gene. Too impatient for cooking.”
Silence settles between us, a ping from my phone the first to break it. It’s Elia, letting me know mom and baby are doing great, and that there was an emergency C-section performed and that’s why he hadn’t been able to contact me yet.
“Noah Montalto has arrived,” I say as a second text comes in, this one a picture; I turn the screen to face my nephew’s grandfather, noting the rare genuine smile that lights his entire face. The baby’s got the big blue eyes, just like me and Caroline, and a dark head of hair tucked under his little knit cap, and it makes my womb clench.
“A made man in the making.” Orlando beams, a ray of sunshine starting to burn my skin.
It’s way too fucking early for all of this.
