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“What’s it like to have such a big family?”
She dumps chocolate chips into a measuring cup, and I laugh. I would’ve put the entire bag in there with the excuse that there’s no such thing as too much chocolate. But Bella, she’s precise, even in her baking. Maybe that’s why her demeanor in the bedroom surprised me so much. She’s not rigid or traditional. She’s wild and exploratory.
“It’s annoying as all hell, but awesome at the same time. When my cousins get together with us, it’s a killer Thanksgiving football game. Poor Blanca’s the only girl, but she learned quick that if she wanted in, she had to be tough. I hate to admit this, but it’s nice coming to the Hamptons and having a break from Sunday dinners.”
“Why?” She drops the chocolate chips into the bowl, and I pick one out and put it on my tongue. She says nothing.
“Because I’m Italian and male and twenty-eight, which means a lot of pressure to bring someone home. You’d have thought Annie was the Queen of England when Enzo brought her into the fold. Everyone thinks Dom might be gay because he’s the oldest and still single. I have some time to relax now with Enzo and Annie being what they are, but they’ll be bugging me again soon.” I push the bowl away, and she digs out a spoonful of batter and slides it into her mouth. “What are you doing?”
“Tasting the goods.” She swallows. “It tastes just like my mom’s.”
I swipe my finger in the bowl and suck it. She watches me.
“Want some?” I ask, ready for a reenactment of 9 1/2 Weeks food scene.
“Sure.”
See, this is why she keeps me on my toes. I have full faith in myself that I could get her stripped down on this counter with my head between her legs if I wanted.
“Finger or spoon?” I hold up both.
She takes control of my hand, dips it into the batter, and pulls it toward her, then she swirls her tongue around my finger until it’s clean.
“And I’m hard,” I say.
She laughs. “Okay, let’s get these baked and cooling. Then we can go take a nap of our own.” She winks and I capture her lips with mine. She doesn’t push away or argue.
She scoops them out onto a cookie sheet, and I put them in the oven and set the timer.
“Do you have other family besides your mom?” I ask.
“No. She was an only child, and although my dad had three siblings, they’re spread out, so for holidays, it was always my mom, me, and her latest boyfriend. One year I had to go over to her boyfriend’s family home and his ex-wife showed up. We found them in the closet between the meal and dessert. Good times.”
“Wow, that’s crazy.” My chest constricts when I think of a young Bella witnessing something like that. “Have you heard from your mom since she and Greg returned to Florida?”
It’s really none of my business. Greg’s reputation in Manhattan is somewhat similar to my own. Playboy, bachelor for life, etc. Just on a much larger scale. He goes to Fashion Week with a model on his arm, movie premieres with actresses, and Broadway shows with Tony winners. But after witnessing what happened with my brother, I’m not naïve enough to think that a woman can’t change a man anymore.
“A little. They seem good, but he’s a charmer, which my mom falls for every time. I always cross my fingers for her, but sadly, she can’t find her second love.”
“Second love?” I lean back against the counter with my arms crossed.
“My dad was her first love.” Her eyes light up for the first time during this conversation, and it reminds me of the sparkle in those earrings she liked. “Sometimes I wonder if people even fall in love like that anymore. Or if I was young and delusional because they were my parents. Or maybe I just remember what a great man he was because he died so young. You know how when people die, they say you only remember the good?” She busies her finger tracing the lines of the granite.
“How old were you?”
“Six.”
Shit, that had to have sucked. Her mom seems so well-adjusted though. I think my mom would permanently grieve my dad if something happened. When my dad’s sister remarried after losing her husband, Ma told me she saw it as dishonoring his memory. She’s old school.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it feels like not enough.
She shrugs. “It’s been decades. I’m over the loss. I just hope my mom finds whatever she’s looking for.” She sets her gaze on me. “Tell me, do you think a playboy can really change?”
My gut constricts and my throat dries. Way to put me on the spot. As I stare into her beautiful face and study her for a moment—those emerald eyes and flushed cheeks from a morning spent in the sun, the braid coming around her shoulder and falling against her freckled skin—all of that makes it so that I can only answer honestly.
“Yeah, I think they can.”
