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Don’t think of him.
“Coffee?” her mother asks.
“No sugar for me,” she says as she sits at the table.
Shpresa peers at her in surprise. “It tastes okay?”
“You get used to it.”
Shpresa places a full cup on the table for Alessia and sits opposite her with a cup of her own. “Tell me. What happened after I put you on that minibus on the road to Shkodër?”
“Oh, Mama.” Alessia’s lip quivers as the enormity of what she’s experienced since she left Albania rises in her chest like a tidal wave. Haltingly, between her tears, she tells her mother the whole story.
* * *
I wake feeling refreshed. The sun is higher in the sky, and when I check the time, it’s 9:30 a.m. It’s late. Hurriedly, I drag on my jeans, T-shirt, and sweater. At some point, I’ll need to head back to the hotel and collect my stuff. But more importantly, I need to know what’s happening with our shotgun wedding.
In the family room, I find Alessia and her mother quietly sobbing at the table.
What the hell?
“What’s wrong?” I startle them both as my anxiety rockets.
Alessia dashes the tears from her eyes and leaps up from her chair into my arms.
“Hey. What is it?”
“Nothing. I’m glad you are here.” She hugs me.
I kiss the top of her head. “So am I.”
Shpresa rises too and wipes her eyes. “Good morning, Lord Maxim.”
“Good morning. Um… Maxim is fine. It’s my name.”
She gives me a tight smile. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
“No sugar, Mama,” Alessia interjects.
I tilt her chin up and gaze into sad, dark eyes that have seen and experienced too much. My heart clenches.
My love.
“Why are you so upset?”
“I was telling Mama about everything that happened after I left Kukës.”
I tighten my hold on her as a surge of protective energy constricts my chest. “I see.” Kissing her hair, I cradle her against me, grateful once more that she’s survived her harrowing ordeal. “I’ve got you now, and I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”
Ever.
I frown, surprised at the ferocity of my feelings. I really don’t want to let her out of my sight. She’s been through too much already. “I mean it,” I add. She runs her fingertips over my stubble, and her touch reverberates… everywhere. “I need a shave.” I sound gruff.
She grins. “I would like to watch.”
“Would you now?” I raise a brow.
Alessia’s eyes are no longer despondent but sparkling with amusement and an emotion that speaks directly to my groin.
Mrs. Demachi busies herself preparing coffee, noisily banging the small pot, so the spell between Alessia and me is broken. I kiss Alessia’s nose, and grinning like a fool, I turn my attention to her mother. Alessia nuzzles my chest as I watch the elaborate process that includes a small tin pot, a long teaspoon, and studious stirring at the stove.
Mrs. Demachi gives me a brief smile. “Sit,” she says, so I release my fiancée and, with a glance at the shotgun on the wall, take a seat at the table.
Alessia retrieves a cup and saucer from the dresser. She’s wearing the dark denim skirt we bought in Padstow, which clings enticingly to her perfectly formed arse.
She’s gorgeous.
I shift in my chair, and Alessia fills my cup from the tin pot. “Your coffee,” she says, her dark eyes gleaming with delight, and she places the cup in front of me. She knows I’m ogling her, and she likes it. I grin and, with my eyes on hers, purse my lips together to blow gently over the rim of the cup. Her lips part as she inhales sharply, and my grin widens.
Two can play this game.
Her mother clears her throat, and we’re both brought back into the kitchen. Alessia laughs and says something in Albanian to Mrs. Demachi, who nods in quiet disapproval at her daughter.
I attempt a sip of coffee. It’s scalding hot, aromatic, and bitter but warming. Alessia’s mother lights the oven and then starts rolling out some dough. She’s quick and efficient, and before long, she’s cut them into strips, then squares. The speed is impressive. No wonder Alessia cooks so well. Alessia joins her, and I watch, fascinated, as they each form little round dough balls in their hands. Their ease in the kitchen reminds me of Jessie and Danny at Tresyllian Hall in Cornwall. Her mother arranges them close together on a baking tray, and Alessia paints them with milk using a little plastic brush. Their competence, their ease with each other—their domesticity is comforting to watch.
Hell. Where are my manners?
* * *
“Can I do anything to help?” Maxim asks.
Alessia carefully shakes her head while her mother nods.
“No, Mama. The nodding means yes.”
Shpresa laughs. “We are not used to help from men in the kitchen.” Her eyes are alight with humor as she places the baking tray in the oven.
