"I've been wearing one of three dresses this whole time. I might need to go shopping while we're here." Corsica shied away from my continued kisses.
"No," I said, wondering if she expected me to pay for a spree. "I think it's just you. You look more elegant when you're relaxed."
Corsica shook her head, unwilling to accept the compliment. "How can I relax when your father's been critiquing each step of this recipe and you're distracting me? Do you really want burned sauce?"
I laughed and caught her hand. "I don't care if we have to throw the whole dinner out. What's this wonderful song?"
Her cheeks colored as I pulled her into a slow dance. We swayed, pressed close together in the kitchen until my father returned.
He put the bottle of wine down on the counter and made no move to give us privacy. "I can play this song," he said, then his phone rang. "I promise I'll play it again for you later, but I have to take this call."
"That's too bad," Corsica said as my father promptly disappeared. "Why can't he, of all people, just take the night off?"
I shrugged. "He likes working and, God knows, it's the only thing he does well."
"He plays piano really well."
I let Corsica return to the stove to stir her sauce. "I remember one time my father made me go with him to a charity event. I had to wear a white suit. Xavier picked it out, of course, because no one else but my father would think to put a seven year old in a white suit."
"You must have looked so sweet," Corsica smiled.
I grimaced. "Who knows? All I could think was I was being tortured. It was a really fancy event, but the caterers took pity on me and brought me a bowl of spaghetti."
Her lips curled up in a smile. "Your father let you eat spaghetti in a white suit?"
"No," I said. "He had left me at our table an hour before that, some conference call or something. I was mad and hungry, so I dug in. By the time he returned, I looked like something out of a horror film. He was so angry, we left right then and there. I went to stay with my mother that weekend."
"So, you don't like nice clothes," Corsica said with a shrug. "When I was seven, all I wanted was a new dress for Easter. My father said no and it almost broke my heart. Then, my mother found me daydreaming over an old lace tablecloth we had. In the morning, the tablecloth was gone and I had a beautiful dress complete with embroidered rosebuds. It was perfect."
"Sounds like you were Cinderella," I said.
Corsica's eyes drifted away. "I thought I was, too, until we went to church. My father had been drinking already and he told everyone how I got such a pretty dress. I think he was trying to compliment my mother, but all the kids made fun of me the entire day."
I froze. "Your father drank, too?"
She turned to the stove and took her time tasting the sauce. "Your father is really serious about his sobriety. You should give him a chance."
My voice was harsher than I intended. "You have no idea what he's really like. This, all of this, is just an act. He was always charming, always so interested in everyone, and always so loving. Then, I realized that was just the secret of his success. Underneath it, the part that drinking revealed, he's petty and jealous and mean."
"That wasn't just the alcohol?" Her eyes were shadowed, strained.
"If I believed that, then I would have to believe my mother was beaten just by accident. And, I'm sorry, I just can't look at all those times he sent her across the room with a slap and think that it wasn't really him."
Corsica put down the wooden spoon and came to stand right in front of me. "You were so young. You must have been terrified."
I flinched away from her hands. "I wasn't terrified. I was outraged. The only problem was I was just a little boy, and I couldn't protect my mother."
"But you were there for her," Corsica said. She refused to let me turn away and grabbed my face with both hands. I didn't see any pity in her eyes, only understanding. "You were powerless, but you did what you could. You shouldn't have to feel guilty if it wasn't enough."
Our lips brushed and I felt a jolt like an earthquake. Somehow she understood, and that connection shook me harder than the bright pulse of desire I felt for her.
#
That pulse had turned to a knot by morning and when I woke up, I was stiff with wanting Corsica. The song we had danced to echoed in my head, despite the fact that the version I heard was the one my father had played for her. It was tangled with thoughts of my hands sliding around her waist, her lips brushing mine, and our legs pressing against each other under the linen tablecloth. Then there was the glorious few minutes when my father had gone to bed, but Corsica worried we should keep up our engaged pretense.
We had stayed curled up on the leather sofa, my hand brushing along the bare heat of her shoulder and arm. Before it was obvious that we were alone, I stole a kiss. Or, more like it, Corsica had surrendered a kiss to me. Her head falling back on the sofa, lips opening so I could taste her deeper.
I groaned and sat up. I had to find a way to make Corsica spend the night with me. There had to be a way our ruse would force it. Then, I could kiss her like that again, take it further, and hopefully get her out of my system before I lost my mind.
"Hello?" I was still groggy and hard when I answered the phone call.
It was my assistant and before I hit the second syllable of my greeting, he let loose a long list of things I needed to get done as soon as possible.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm doing all I can, but there's a reason you're the boss and I'm the assistant," he complained. "And, I know I shouldn't interrupt your family vacation, but I'm afraid some of this stuff needs to be sorted out now."
"Family vacation?" I yanked on a pair of jeans and headed to the kitchen for coffee. "Is that the excuse you're giving people?"
My assistant paused, annoyed that I was off-topic. "Yes. I mean, no. You told me it was a family medical emergency. Then, I just assumed you were taking the rest of the time to spend with your family."
"Yeah, that's it," I said, completely distracted as the front door of the house opened.
Corsica sailed in, lit up with residual energy from her long, morning run. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting her salty skin.
"Are you swearing at me? I didn't know when else to call. Is there a better time?" my assistant all but wailed into the phone.
"What? No. I'm not swearing at you. Now is fine."
Corsica noticed me and gave me a bright smile. "I'm going to make scrambled eggs and hash browns. Want some?"
I was starving, but not just for breakfast. My mind dangled between the ache Corsica gave me, that grew more solid every time I saw her, and my need to get back to normal before I lost it completely. "No, thanks. Coffee," I said.
She brought the pot and a mug over to me and then noticed the phone balanced on my shoulder. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."
Corsica was being so nice that it made me mad. All I wanted to do was throw the phone and make love to here on the kitchen floor. She, on the other hand, didn't look at all affected by my half-nakedness. It burned me that I wanted her so badly and she just breezed back to the stove as if nothing was out of the ordinary.