I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Dea, it’s fine. When did you last have it?”
“In the kitchen, by the sink and I think maybe it went down the drain and if that happened then—”
“Dea, shh,” I murmur, stepping in close.
I lift her light frame until her legs wrap around my waist and her arms wind around my neck like second nature.
She exhales into the curve of my throat, soft and warm.
I hold her there, grounded against me, one hand under her thigh, the other at her back.
“I’m sorry, Santo,” she mumbles, voice muffled in my neck. “I know that ring is irreplaceable.”
“Not everything that’s irreplaceable is lost,” I whisper, walking us out of the pantry and toward the living room.
She clings tighter, her cheek against mine, as I lower onto the couch with her still wrapped around me, straddling my lap where she belongs.
“The ring isn’t in the drain and if it was lost in this house then it isn’t lost, justhiding,we’ll find it,” I say softly brushing her hair back through my fingers, the golden strands glistening under the low light of the room.
Her eyes mist over, and I brush away the tear that escapes before it can make its way down her cheek.
“I just... it was your mother’s, Santo. I know how much it means to you.”
I press my lips to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “The ring is precious to me because it’s on your finger, Dea. That’s all.”
She pulls back, studying my face. “You’re not disappointed?”
“Why would I be disappointed over an accident?”
“Because you’re Santo Amato,” she says, a hint of a smile returning. “You get angry when the dry cleaner presses your shirts wrong.”
I laugh, the sound rumbling in my chest. “That’s different. They do it on purpose.”
“No one deliberately ruins your shirts, Santo,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“You don’t know that.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “But I’m not angry. Or disappointed. Not about the ring.”
She melts, her lips press to mine soft, but sure.
I wrap my arms around her, savoring her warmth, her weight, her presence.
“I could never stay mad at you, Vasilisa. Not when you look at me with those eyes,” I murmur against her lips.
She chuckles pulling back. “My secret weapon.”
“The most effective one in your arsenal.”
We sit in comfortable silence, the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the corner, casting colored shadows across the room. Outside, snow begins to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the windows.
“What time is your call with Luna?” I ask, remembering her plans for the day.
“Not until two.” She snuggles closer. “Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Never.” I press a kiss to her temple. “Just wondering how much time I have with you before you abandon me for girl talk.”
She laughs and it lights up the room. “As if you don’t have business to attend to.”
I tense slightly, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
