My fingers tapped against my thigh and I gave him an unamused expression. “I do.”
“My mom doesn’t like guns,” he said.
“So you’ve said.”
“And she’s cooking you dinner,” he added.
“Again. Not as romantic as you think it is.”
Sage pursed his lips, a silent threat flaring in his eyes. “I like you better when you’re too cum drunk to mouth off to me.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Be polite,” Sage warned. “Or I’ll be extremely rude to you later.”
He opened the car door and I followed suit, catching his stare over the roof of the car.
“You make that sound like something I wouldn’t enjoy,” I said.
He arched a brow, and I wondered if maybe I wouldn’t after all. A shiver worked its way down my spine, the descent only interrupted by the sound of his front door opening. Sage looked away first, his entire expression softening when he saw who was at the door. I assumed it was his mother.
She looked like him, shorter and darker skinned, extremely well put together. Honestly, his mom looked like every caricature of an Italian mother I’d ever seen in movies and on TV, but I wouldn’t ever tell him that.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” she said, her voice husky and happy.
“I know.”
I trailed behind Sage, a few steps away from the porch and he looked over his shoulder, hand extended toward me. The simple act was enough to almost send me face first onto the sidewalk. Sage and I hadn’t held hands. We didn’t hold hands. He wasn’t…Iwasn’t the type. My brain discarded its own understanding of who the two of us were to each other and reciprocated the reach. Our fingers brushed, tangling together as he pulled me closer to him.
A feeling I couldn’t identify flared through my chest, and I cleared my throat, starting up the stairs. The shift in my balance as I climbed toward the front door caused the plug inside of me to move, the weight of it pressing against my prostate, and I stifled a groan, flattening my free hand against the center of Sage’s back to steady myself on the porch.
“Who is this?” Sage’s mom asked, tilting her head to the side to peer around his shoulder at me.
I felt fifteen again, meeting Andrea McAllister’s parents for the first time before homecoming. Sage squeezed my hand.
“This is Foster.”
I noticed the way he used my first name, not Golden, which he normally called me. It made me feel like the casual way he referred to me in private was something special for us, not to be shared with the outside world. Another feeling bubbled in my chest, and I choked it back down. This was not the time and it was not the place.
“Does Foster have a last name?” she asked.
“Mama.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “Sandro, I hoped…”
“Mama, this is Foster,” he said again. I flexed my fingers against the small of his back.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Rosetti,” I said, giving her what I hoped was my best not-a-hired-hitman smile.
She saw right through me, much in the same as Sage did.
“Please…” She answered me with her own fake smile, barely shielding her displeased acceptance of my relationship with her son. “Call me Connie.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Mrs. Rosetti.”
Her cheeks flushed and I knew I’d made the right move. She gave me a very careful and appraising look, then stepped aside.
“Come in, boys,” she said. “Dinner will be ready in a bit. Your father is in his office. As always.”
