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My spine returns, and the flaming embarrassment turns to icy rage. My feet carry me to the door and I jerk it open, spinning to face him. “I can’t handle you judging me today. You can leave now.”
His eyes narrow but he doesn’t move. “Judging?”
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone level as the cold handle digs into my palm. “You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to.”
“I’m not judging you, Kyra,” he says, a strange look contorting his face.
I huff out a sigh.
He approaches slowly, and I turn away when his hand reaches for my face. He traces a path down my arm instead, threading his fingers through mine. “I’m angry…and jealous,” he admits. “But I’m not judging you.”
“Wait, what? I don’t understand.”
Sutton’s knife scrapes cream cheese over her toasted bagel. “He’s jealous you’re wearing the clothes I bought you, and not the ones he did,” she supplies nonchalantly, taking a crunchy bite. With that, she leaves, but not before I catch the “Men,” she mutters with a shake of her head.
His words take a moment to sink in. “The clothes you bought me?”
“I picked out your wardrobe myself,” he says, stroking his thumb over my palm. “But apparently Sutton contributed as well.” He rolls his eyes and I have to hold back my smirk.
I shake away the threatening smile and pull my stoic face back. “Why does that make you angry?”
His free hand finds the lace around my neck and he slips a finger underneath, caressing my collarbone. I can’t mask my sharp inhale when the rest of his hand reaches for my shoulder and he slips the robe down my arm, pulling the fabric away from my skin and almost all the way out of the sash in the process.
He drinks in the sight of my chest, shoulder and the swell of my breast like he’s staring at my naked body. His jaw ticks and his shoulders are tense, like he doesn’t want to be touching me, but if I had to guess, I’d say the look in his eyes was…hunger. But I don’t let my thoughts go further.
“I hate that you’d rather wear something she chose. But even worse, I hate that it wasn’t me who bought it for you. That I got it wrong. If you’d rather wear something like this, dolcezza,” he says, edging me backwards, the door closing behind me, “something that makes you look dangerously fuckable and has me wishing it was on the floor, then I want to be the one to choose it, buy it…dress you in it.”
My chin jerks up with the last one, but he’s already removed himself from my space, the moment forgotten, and the desire I might have seen earlier replaced with an uncharacteristically impassive stare.
He clears his throat and plucks the garment bag off the back of the couch. “I don’t want to be late,” he says. My mouth opens when he answers my unspoken question. “I was hoping you’d accompany me to church this morning.” His face softens as he hands over the hangar.
At my obviously panicked expression, he adds, “My church.”
I smooth my hands over the soft cream-colored dress as Leo closes the car door behind me, sending Diego on his way.
He faces me, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lowers as he runs the backs of his fingers down my neck and uses a featherlight touch to trace the delicate roses of the dresses’s lace neckline.
“I love your hair up,” he says, his eyes a bright blue in the early morning sun. They linger on the spot just under my jaw and my skin heats under his stare.
He cocks his head to the side and his gaze slides down my body, all the way to my still red toes peeking out of the pretty wedges Sutton lent me.
A devilish smile splits his lips and he shakes his head, breaking the moment.
He turns to the stairs and holds out an arm for me. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say, and we climb the stairs alongside the other parishioners.
The inside of the church is breathtaking, and Leo slows down as we make our way down the aisle, so I can take it all in. The arched ceiling is impossibly high, gilded edges and classical artwork covering the vast space. Marble columns flank the pews, and the art extends intricately down to the floor, stone carvings woven into the designs. Wrought-iron candelabra are mounted to the high walls, between each of the beautiful stained-glass windows. The morning light shines brightly through the left, bathing one side of the room in a reddish blue glow.
Echoes of hushed conversation fill the cold hall, the organist waiting patiently in front of the ancient instrument next to the dais. We get closer to the front and I peer up at Jesus, nailed to the cross, feeling the ache of the sharp thorns of his crown on my own head.
I reach for my crucifix but Leo catches my hand, placing it over the other in the crook of his arm, and holding my hands hostage as we walk. My eyes survey the people we pass, some of them paying us little mind, but most looking at me with an unnamable expression, and nodding to Leo with respect and…reverence?
He huffs when he spots someone standing next to the very first pew.
“I apologize in advance. I was hoping my sister wouldn’t be here,” he says, his body suddenly tense.
She’s speaking to an older couple and she shakes the man’s hand as they turn to take their seats.
