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“Morning.” I’m glad he speaks first because I’m not sure if I can.
“Hi,” I manage even though my voice sounds hoarse. “I'm sorry, I overslept. And probably overstayed my welcome.”
The beginning of a smile tips the corners of his firm lips but it doesn’t quite reach. Instead the sparkle in his eyes reveals his fascination with my comment.
“No, I wanted you here.”
I try not to look as relieved as I feel or as happy. “Thank you.”
“Shirt looks good on you.” His appreciative gaze roams over my body and my skin heats all over again.
“Sorry I couldn’t find my clothes. I left them down here. Somewhere.”
“I’m not complaining. They’re safe in the living room. You can get dressed whenever you’re ready.”
Lord help me. I mustn’t take that to mean anything more than just getting myself clothed as soon as I can.
“Thank you.”
“I’m making breakfast.”
“You want me to stay for breakfast?” I look from him to the strips of bacon under the grill. When I look back at him I get a full smile this time that makes me feel more at ease and less anxious.
“Yes. I thought I’d start cooking while we talk.”
Talk.The anxiety returns.
God. Yes, do we ever need to talk, but what do we talk about first? And what is he going to say to me? Is he going to try and talk some sense into me again?
If he does, will I listen?
“Yeah, we should talk.” I nod.
“Coffee?” He motions to the machine.
“Yes please. Strong.” On a normal day I can't function without a jolt of caffeine to my mind. Today is the first in a while where I’ve felt like I actually can’t live without it.
“I figured. Sit.” He points at the wooden breakfast table and I make my way over to sit on the chair behind it.
Dante makes us two steaming mugs of coffee and sits at the head of the table. Which is basically next to me.
He sets down my coffee in front of me and I take a huge gulp allowing the caffeine to work its magic on my brain. The effects are almost immediate and I feel my thoughts falling in order.
Dante has been keeping his eyes on me the whole time, watching me as if he’s trying to take note of everything I do.
“This is really good coffee,” I say, trying for a lighthearted start to our conversation.
“It’s from Italy.”
I smile on hearing that, remembering the Italian wine he gave me and the sweet gesture of getting his friend to bring it to the club that night. “It’s nice to have different things from around the world.”
He grins. “My grandparents insist on sending me endless bags of coffee, so I always have a stash.”
“That’s nice too.” I always like hearing people talk about their grandparents. I never knew mine. Both sides died before I was born.
I set the cup down and when he shuffles in his chair to lean back, I’m instantly drawn to the tattoo of the cascade of stars splashed over his shoulder like a sash. Each star is intricately inked into his skin and I’m sure it must have hurt. Then again he has so many, maybe it didn’t. There’s less skin on his body that isn’t tattooed than there is.
I try to remember what the stars mean but I still can’t. There was something about kneeling or not kneeling. At the time when I was doing my little research I was more interested in the tattoos on his knuckles.
