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Will this be our life? Will we need iron gates and armed guards? Will I smile and nod when I drive by? How do I explain any of that to Brynn? Or Ryleigh?
My stomach drops with the weight of keeping more secrets from people I love. I see now why Callisto kept this part of himself locked up so tightly. I see how hard it must have been for him, the strength it must have taken. Then, I remember his mother and I see why he had to. I realize the risk of letting people in.
At the end of the nearly mile-long driveway is a beautiful Mediterranean style home with a rich, cream stucco exterior, a deep red terracotta tiled roof, and immaculate landscaping. This is Carlos’s home. This is where Callisto grew up. I expected it to be nice, but this—I didn’t think places like this existed outside of movies.
Callisto parks in the center of the circular driveway, right in front of two large, arched wooden doors. Before we even reach the door, someone is opening it.
“Hello, Mira,” he tells the small, older woman who greets us. The way he speaks to her is softer than normal, like she’s someone he respects, someone he admires.
“Cal,” she replies while placing a quick kiss on each of his cheeks. “Your father told me he was expecting you for dinner. I didn’t know you’d bring a guest.”
He grins. “I’d like you to meet Makenna, and she’s more to me than just a guest.”
She places a hand on each one of my cheeks, cupping my face. “I see.” She studies me for a moment, her eyes narrowing, then crinkling at the corners when she smiles. “Take good care of my boy, beautiful girl.” Her Italian accent saturates her words.
Doesn’t she know? He’s the one who takes care of me.
She lets go of my face, then looks over at Callisto. “There’s fettucine with bolognese in the oven. Carlos is waiting in his study. You know your way around,” she says with a wink before she turns and walks away.
The inside of Carlos’s home reflects his office at the restaurant—classic and traditional. Soft gold walls with deep mahogany trim and red Saltillo tiled floors. I soak it all in, trying to picture a young Callisto running around, wondering if anything has changed since his mother passed away or if they left everything the same. Did they pack her things and put them in a spare room, too? Does Carlos keep her perfume on the bathroom counter? Do her clothes still hang in the closet? Is there an ache in his chest every time he remembers her smile?
It’s not a throbbing, crippling ache. Not anymore. I love Callisto. My soul found his when I was seventeen years old. My heart sealed the deal five years later. But when I think about my life, I still think about Reid.
We stop when we reach the kitchen. Chestnut-colored cabinets line the walls with an ivory island in the center of the room. A black iron chandelier hangs over the island and heavy wood beams spread across the ceiling. There’s a small round table off to the side with arched windows behind it that look out into a lush, green back yard. And the smell—It’s like walking into the kitchen at the restaurant. Tomatoes, garlic, and butter. My stomach rumbles as soon as I catch a whiff.
Callisto pulls out one of the chairs at the small table. “I’ll go get my father. Would you like something to drink?”
I can’t have wine, but I can’t exactly tell him why I can’t have wine. So, I slide onto the stool and give a simple answer. “Water is fine.”
He grins and it lights up his eyes. It’s been months since I’ve had to drink myself to sleep. I have Callisto to thank for that. That smile tells me he knows it.
He grabs a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, twists the cap, then hands it to me. “I won’t be long.” He leans down, his lips brushing mine, enveloping me in warmth. “I’m ready to get you back home.” He sayshomeas if it belongs to me, too. His eyes sweep over me. He licks his lips.
Heat blossoms inside my belly, flowing through my veins, throbbing between my thighs.
He breathes out. “Fuck.” He grips my neck, his fingertips at my nape and his thumb bruising my jaw. Tension and need ricochets between us.
My breath is ragged. “Hurry.”
His mouth curves in a slow smile as his hand drops from my neck. “Not with you. With you, I’m going to take my time.”
“Promise?”
His smile grows. “Promise.” He kisses my forehead, then walks away, disappearing through a doorway.
It feels comfortable, sitting here, in Carlos’s kitchen. Whether I want to admit it or not, he filled a void I didn’t even know I had. I didn’t grow up with a father. My dad disappeared when my mom caught him having a nooner with a woman half his age.
Carlos has offered me so much wisdom, so much comfort, over the years, and Callisto has helped me rise from the ashes of my own fiery, personal hell. I wonder again about Callisto’s mother. And his grandmother. I wonder about his relationship with Mira. They seem so close. She looks at him with such admiration and pride.
“Hello, Makenna,” Carlos says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Welcome to my home.” He doesn’t look like a man who just had a heart attack. Then again, weak doesn’t seem like a word that belongs in the Suppato vocabulary.
“It’s beautiful.” I set my bottle on the table.
He smiles warmly. “I have my wife to thank for that. She had an eye for beautiful things.”
I push my chair from the table, moving to meet Callisto at the oven, where he’s pulling out the dish of pasta.
“I’ll grab the plates.”
