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Havier has just tracked down Roquelle and currently has her pinned against a wall, his lips “the whisper of a dove’s wing away from her.” Oh, this is getting good. I nestle down further under the covers, ready to get to the meat of the story.
Pun?
I blush as I read, knowing that the “one day” that seemed to loom so far in the future now has a date behind it when I go from being a lifelong Bachman woman to becoming the first crossover.
My last name isn’t the only thing I’ll be losing. I close the book, staring up at the ceiling. I’m also, finally, going to lose my virginity. Sure, I’m still young, but in the world of virgins I’m ancient.
We have some old-fashioned patriarchal values in this family, but luckily, both my parents have always taught me that this is my body, and I will be the only person who decides when I’m ready to have someone enter it.
I’ve chosen to wait until my wedding day.
The reason I’ve waited isn’t some flowery saving my innocence as a gift for my husband reason. I’ve just wiped enough of my girlfriends’ tears away to know that until a man is ready to make a commitment to love and care for me, I don’t want any part of the heartache and drama that comes with dating.
And I’ve never really met anyone I wanted to date.
Of course, my father has loved that I’ve not had much experience with men, especially the hot single brothers of the family. No daddy wants to hear his little girl has been corrupted by one of those kinky AF men that run around the Village and the Parish.
Like that Mr. Cocky Pants Savage that arrived this afternoon.
I bet he has a long line of women weeping behind him.
Gorgeous men who use their charms to pull you in, make promises they won’t keep, getting what they want, then leaving you for the next pretty thing that comes along. Sure, when they get married, they’re the most loyal men in the world, but before they put a ring on some lucky lady’s finger?
Well, they’re kinda like ol’ Havier. Bedding any willing woman. No. Thank. You. I’ll stick to my sugar crush, letting the gummy worms and cookies fill the void till my wedding day.
Still… with that day quickly approaching, a looming sense of warmth circles the air, landing somewhere in the middle of my core. I can’t help but think and daydream about what that night will finally be like.
What he—my husband—will be like.
I pull my computer out from under my bed, ready to flip through the file I made labeled “Giovanni Russo.” I bring up my favorite picture of him. His hair is dark and thick and wavy. Close-cropped beard. Stone-cut jaw. High, angled cheekbones.
He’s sent flowers, chocolates, short letters handwritten on notecards. We’ve texted here and there, deciding to save our first conversation for in person. He seems nice enough.
He prefers a cold beer over the malt whiskey our men tend to favor. He left the family business to his brother, Vincent, almost a decade older than he is, and moved to the States, to New York. He enjoyed a fast-paced life, lived in the city, had a Wall Street job.
He met and befriended plenty of Bachmans during his time in New York, but it was his brother Vincent who first contacted one of our heads and began the relationship between the two families. Recently, Giovanni moved back to Italy and took over his brother’s place as head of the Russo family.
He also took over his brother’s home.
A gothic castle.
Meaning, I’m going to be a real-life princess on my wedding day. Soon, I’ll be the lady of the house, running an entire estate as the queen. My mother a phone call away, thank God, to answer all my questions.
Will I be good at it? Will the people there like me? Will his family embrace me?
The thought is overwhelming. I need Pippa.
I open my Secure Non-Family messenger app on my computer, the only place I can have a conversation with her.
Pippa Longstocking: I’ve been texting you and now I’m trying your computer. Why aren’t you answering?? Please tell me you have not picked Havier over your BF for life??
Paisley Daisy: Sorry! I’m here. My phone must be in my backpack. Didn’t hear the notification go off.
Pippa Longstocking: It’s okay. Just checking on you on your last night as a 20-year-old. I remember my 21st like it was only a month ago.
Paisley Daisy: Because it was. Don’t you think that joke’s getting a little old?
Pippa Longstocking: Not when I have one more day to tell it.
