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She raised a finger in warning. “If I wake up tomorrow and find a cat in my room, you’ll both be put out on the street.”
He laughed and reached for her glass, as his was empty, but she swatted his hand away.
Was it possible?
She’d always believed she was supposed to embrace her isolation, blamed herself for letting loneliness fill the spaces meant to hold divinity, but Dante’s words had her doubting.
Maybe she’d been fighting the current, swimming in the wrong direction, all along.
After cutting herself on the blade of hope so many times, would she be a fool to reach for it again?
Twenty-Four
I frutti proibiti sono i più dolci.
Forbidden fruit is the sweetest.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 20
Around midnight, Alessa poked at the front of her blouse. She’d spilled something. At some point. She didn’t remember what, exactly. Eyes crossed, she raised a blurry finger to her nose—oops, her cheek. No, that was her chin.
“That’s not whiskey.” Her words sounded squishy.
Dante, sprawled in an armchair with one leg draped over the side, mouth open and one eye closed, squinted at a carved wooden statue he held in front of his face. “No, that’s the water I told you to drink an hour ago. Poured half right down your dress like a river between your breasts.”
Alessa scoffed. “I didnot. And if Idid—which Ididn’t—you shouldn’t discuss a lady’s bosoms.”
“Bosoms?” He dropped the statue—a priceless heirloom at least two centuries old—on the cushion beside him. “Don’t thinkbosomsare plural.”
Alessa stood, chin high, and waited for the room to right itself. “Of course, they are. Bosoms almost always come in pairs.”
“Breastscome in pairs, but I don’t thinkbosoms—who evensaysthat?—can be plural. Two breasts, one bosom. As in, I have two legs, but one crotch, that sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“About grammar?”
“About your crotch. Andyoushouldn’t notice when a girl spills water down her cleavage.”
“Ididn’t,” Dante said. “But you got all squeaky about how cold it was. Then you drank another glass of whiskey, so I doubt the water will help much.” He stared longingly at his glass. “Whose turn is it?”
“Mine, I think.”
“Sing something.”
“Pass. I’m a terrible singer.” Her next sip went down a bit too easily. “Yousing something.”
She didn’t think he’d do it, but in a voice as rich as honeyed whiskey, he sang:
“I took my bonnie lass out on a ship,”
Oh, dear. The burn of alcohol and the warmth of his voice seemed to be melting something inside her.
“To give her a taste of the sea,”
Well. This wasn’t fair at all.
“And when we got back on shore once more,”
