The elevator begins to stop.
“Enzo—”
I can’t manage to finish the rest of my sentence.
If you don’t stop, I won’t be able to.
In response, he redoubles his efforts as the elevator comes to a full halt.
“I won’t move until you come,” he says with unshakable confidence.
“But . . .” I can’t speak as the doors begin to open. What if someone is on the other side? I mean to say, but the words don’t come.
He lets go of my arms, but that’s his only concession. I grab his navy sports coat with both hands, clutching it as the spasms come.
Somehow I’m able to gather myself enough to glance out as the doors open. Enzo doesn’t even bother to turn and look. Thankfully, no one’s waiting in the hall.
Full-on clenching around his fingers, I cry out, hardly able to stand.
Only then does he pull his hand away, turning just in time to hold the doors open. I don’t join him. Instead, I stand there, back against the wall, staring back at him.
The elevator alarm begins to ring, which makes Enzo smile.
“Need some help?” He reaches for me, still holding the door, and I pull my dress down and take his hand. When the doors close behind us and the alarm stops ringing, I pause.
“I could use a second.”
Without missing a beat, Enzo reaches for my legs and scoops me up like it’s nothing.
“Sorry, don’t have a second,” he says, stopping to look at the numbers. He turns right, presumably toward our room. “That was just an appetizer,” he says.
Being in his arms, being carried by him . . . somehow it’s even more amazing than the orgasm he gave me.
What the hell was I stressing about earlier, anyway?
Things are perfect. Beyond perfect. Never better, in fact.
Because I’m in Enzo’s arms, and this, I’m figuring out, is exactly where I’m meant to be.
29
Chari
“Don’t freak out.”
Devon insisted on having dinner with me, and not at the house. Like he actually suggested we go to Deluca’s II. So it’s not exactly a surprise that he has something monumental to tell me. But still.
“That’s a great segue, Dev,” I say.
Devon pops a mozzarella stick into his mouth and mutters something unintelligible. No wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend. My brother’s manners leave something to be desired, which is odd being that we were raised in the same house. Although I have noticed a few things, including new additions to my brother’s wardrobe. I’ll have to keep my eye out for future developments.
I’m thrilled to see Tris’s restaurant thriving. I half expected to see Lusanne here tonight, but if she’s coming, she hasn’t shown up yet. She’s been splitting her time between the pizza shop and the restaurant, apparently. Enzo told me last night she was even considering a venture of her own but doesn’t want to abandon Tris so soon after the opening.
I get it.
Lisa’s been pressing me on what’s next for me. She thinks my mother is the only reason I came back to Bridgewater. Apparently my mother thinks that too. But I like my job. I really do. And it’s too soon for me to think about making any plans revolving around Enzo.
“Eat your bunny food,” Devon says, referring to my salad. Unlike my brother, I actually enjoy a good salad, so I pick at it, waiting for the ball to drop.
It doesn’t, and my brother doesn’t appear to be in any hurry, so I say, “Spill it, Devon. Whatever you brought me here to say.”
Taking a swig of beer, he sits back and looks at me with a don’t kill me expression that I know all too well.
“Dad called me yesterday.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Did he seriously just say . . .
“Dad? As in your father?”
Devon makes a face. “No, as in our father.”
Suddenly, I’m not hungry.
“Hear me out before you say anything.”
Although the restaurant’s busy, it’s definitely slower than it would be on a weekend. There’s no one sitting next to us, but enough people are in our vicinity that I ask Devon to lower his voice. Small towns and gossip, and all that.
“It’s not like he’s some sort of axe murderer,” he mumbles. “Just listen.”
Part of me wants to make a smart comment, but there’s such a strange sensation in my chest, and my throat, and my everything, that I couldn’t talk if I wanted to anyway.
“He knows he has been a total shit. And he figured if he called you . . .”
Devon trails off, acting as if the reason is so obvious he doesn’t need to supply it. And really, he’s right.
“What?” I finish. “That I might not be super receptive? That I would probably ask some tough questions like, ‘Is there a reason you failed to pay child support? Or send a single birthday card? Or maybe pop your head in at major events in either of our lives, like, I don’t know, our high school graduations? Or college graduations? Or—”
“I knew you’d flip.”
Devon was lucky we weren’t home. “Which is exactly why we’re sitting in the middle of my boyfriend’s brother’s restaurant. To ensure my freak-out is contained.”
My brother can be so annoying.
“Your boyfriend. My best friend,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Enzo has a whole bunch of titles these days.”
“Oh no you don’t.” I give him my best don’t you dare face, hoping for his sake as well as mine that it’s enough to dissuade him from shifting the conversation to me. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about our father. And Dev knows that man is the last person in the world I want to talk about.
“Anyway,” he says, which is code for I know you’re right, “he said there was a story about you in his local paper a while back.”
That’s not what I expected to hear, and I only manage a very eloquent, “Huh?”
“Yeah, I looked it up online. I’m surprised the Bridgewater Times hasn’t picked it up, but there’s a picture of you coming out of the airport with Enzo. It talks about a ‘local woman,’ aka you, connected to our very own Enzo DeLuca.”
“But that was weeks ago. And I didn’t see anything in the press about it.” I know it’ll happen at some point, of course, and part of me dreads the attention. Another part is eager for the world to know that Enzo is mine.
“Neither did I. But it’s bound to come out sooner rather than later.”
I simply nod, because the sentiment echoes my thoughts.
Hungry in spite of myself, I pick my fork back up just as the waitress comes by to check on us. She asks if we need anything, which we don’t. Except maybe a new topic of conversation.
“He knows you’re dating Enzo,” Devon says as she walks away.
Like I give a shit about what that man knows. But I don’t say as much out loud. Devon doesn’t have a relationship with the sperm donor who helped create us, but he has talked to him a few times over the years, unlike me.
“And?” I ask between bites.
“He wanted me to talk to you about a loan.”