She wasn’t wrong.
I’d chosen her for her spirit.
And I couldn’t exactly be pissed when she tossed all that sass at me, could I?
I made my way into the shower, still steamy and smelling of sweet, girlish scents. And my pathetic ass took deep breaths and felt my cock hardening again at the thought of her running the soapy luffa up and down her arms, her legs, over her breasts, her stomach, lower.
On a sigh, I reached down for my cock, stroking one out to the idea of my wife who was just one room away. But it might as well have been across the country or the world since she would rather roll around naked in a cactus patch than have my hands on her.
It was going to be a long fucking marriage.
And now I had to figure out how to tell everyone who knew and respected me why my new wife would not be attending a social function with me.
The whole mail-order bride thing was starting to sound better and better.
But it was too late.
I was stuck with Isabella.
And sometime in the middle of the night when she rolled onto me with a soft, mewling sleep sound, then let out a little sigh as she wiggled into place, liking me more in sleep than she did while awake, I realized that while she wasn’t happy with the situation, and despite the frustration she was causing already, that I was satisfied with my choice.
Eventually, she would be my wife in every way that mattered.
I just had to be patient.
Admittedly, though, that wasn’t a trait I was known for.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isabella
I was being obstinate.
I recognized that about the whole situation.
I may as well have crossed my arms and stomped my foot about it when he’d told me.
There was even a chance that he wasn’t a complete and utter asshole about it, that he just didn’t realize that you were supposed to talk to your partner about things like functions, especially ones in what was supposed to be their home as well.
I couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that he was doing it to parade me around. And I didn’t like that. I didn’t like what it said about how he valued me, or what it said about my Family.
On top of all of that, it would have just been incredibly uncomfortable for me. Everyone at the event would know I’d been, for all intents and purposes, forced into the marriage, that Primo had conned me into it. I didn’t want them to sneer at me, or look down on me, or even to pity me.
I just didn’t want to interact with them at all.
At least not so soon.
I was surprised, though, that he didn’t mention it again in the morning as we each made our separate breakfasts, even though we both ended up making almost the exact same thing.
He did mention that his brothers would show up at six with the supplies for the bar, so I figured the party would be starting sometime around seven or eight.
It gave me the whole day to go about taking my bags upstairs, arranging everything where I wanted it in my closet and the bathroom cabinets.
It was an almost meditative day, especially after I found a record I liked and put it on the player. If I didn’t think too hard, it almost felt like a normal day in my life. Slowly but surely, I saw myself more in the space, too.
My nightstand filled up with my lotion, a couple notebooks, books, and a small stash of candy for the little mood-lift it would provide.
My robe hung in the bathroom, my products sat in the shower, and I’d even hung a canvas I’d picked up on our travels the day before. It was some cheap print of Manhattan meant for tourists to pick up, but it was a small reminder of home for me.
“Alright,” I said, grabbing my coffee, then moving toward the stairs. “You guys have fun,” I said to Dawson and Dulles because, despite myself, I liked them, and genuinely did hope they had some fun.
“Aw, come on, Bells,” Dulles said, waving an arm out at the apartment. “Won’t you stay and have some fun with us? You could use some, don’t you think?” he added.
“It’s not really my idea of fun for him to show me off to his buddies so they can laugh about how I’d been forced into marriage with him, Dulles,” I told him, hearing a hint of something in my voice that sounded just a little bit like sadness.
“Oh, come on, it’s not like that,” Dulles insisted, shaking his head.
“Isn’t it?” I shot back, wincing at the bitterness in my voice, inwardly wondering if I was always going to feel like the butt of some joke among the Esposito Family because of how I came to be a part of it.
“The party isn’t even about you,” Dawson said, getting my attention, making me realize I hadn’t even asked what the party was about. I guess I figured it was like a belated wedding thing, some way for Primo to show me off like he’d done on the way to the church and even when we went out to dinner.
“What is it about then?” I asked.
“Vissi,” Dawson said, shrugging as he lined up several bottles of red wine.
They’d brought in several tables. From where, I had no idea. But there they were, scattered about. They were bar tables, meant for standing at, or to rest a drink or a small plate on, but also to encourage mingling, unlike normal tables with chairs.
“Vissi?” I asked.
“A cousin,” Dawson supplied. “He just got back from Italy last night. He likes a good party. And since he’s been away for a while, Primo decided to throw him something.”
“Couldn’t he have had an event at a bar or something?” I was nitpicking and I knew it. I even hated myself a little bit because of it.
“I get your distrust of my brother,” Dulles said, shrugging. “But I think you’re mistaken if you think he has any intentions of having anyone make fun of you. That’s not who he is.”
Damnit, I think a part of me actually believed that.
And I was angry about it.
“So, he’s just a kidnapper and forced marriage arranger, not a guy who makes fun of women. That’s such a relief,” I said, making my way up the stairs.
To, yes, sulk.
That was exactly what it felt like I was doing as I heard Primo come home, turn on some music, and from the smells of things, start to cook.
That had been the real flaw in my plan.
I hadn’t eaten dinner. I guess I figured the coffee and my candy drawer were going to cut it. And maybe they would have—I’d had many such dinners over the years—if the smells of food didn’t waft their way up to the loft and under the door. Taunting me. They were taunting me, I tell you.
Before long, my stomach was not just grumbling but twisting and aching so bad that I actually curled up on my side to try to ease the pangs.
It was no use.
I’d gotten a damn taste of Primo’s cooking.
And now my body wanted more.
It was sheer pride that kept me up in my room as the sounds of people grew louder and louder beneath me.
But at a certain point around almost nine at night, even my pride was bowing down before the hunger. Leaving me climbing out of bed and walking to the bathroom, taking a look at myself in the mirror.
I wasn’t party-ready.
I still had traces of my makeup on, but I was wearing simple black bootcut jeans and a black and gray striped knot-front blouse.
A dress would have been more suitable for a dinner party sort of situation. But I wasn’t about to get dressed to draw even more attention to myself.