“Infuriatingly,” I agree.
Caterina taps the rack with the spatula. “Break it up, lovebirds. We’ve got cookies to make.”
At that, Elena’s stomach growls, and she looks a little embarrassed.
“What? The baby wants cookies.”
“The baby does not want burnt almonds,” I say.
“The baby has taste,” Caterina agrees.
Elena lifts her chin. “This baby is going to be raised on the finest cuisine. Mostly because Luca refuses to let anyone eat boxed mac and cheese in his house.”
“Because it’s not food,” I say.
“It’s comfort,” she counters. “Blue box therapy.”
“Make your cookies and I’ll consider it,” I bargain.
“Bribery.” She sniffs. “Low.”
“You love it,” I murmur.
Caterina makes a gagging noise. “That’s enough of that, or I’ll banish you from the kitchen, Papá. I mean it.”
“I’ll be good.” I lift my hands, palms out. “For now.”
I wink at Elena, and she blushes.
Chapter Forty Four
Elena
Atlantic City is a glittery blur beneath our window, all neon and noise, but up here it’s just lamp-light and linen and Luca’s hand tracing lazy shapes on my hip.
We escaped. Not Rome, not Paris, just a few blocks from home with a view of the boardwalk and a mini bar priced like a crime. Luca technically can’t go to any of those places with that damn monitor on his ankle for a few more months.
I don’t care. It’s away. Away from schedules and security sweeps. Away from Caterina’s careful eyes and Roberto’s clipped updates. Nico is on a different floor, which Luca calls “prudent” and I call “pretend privacy.” Still—away.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks, the ridiculous question he always asks after he’s spent ten minutes arranging pillows like I’m a national treasure.
“I’m pregnant, not porcelain,” I say, but I nestle anyway, my thigh over his, my cheek on his chest. His skin is warm. He smells like the soap from the fancy shower and a little like my shampoo, which he insists he doesn’t use and absolutely does.
He makes a pleased sound when I hook a finger in the chain at his throat. “Possessive,” he murmurs.
“Observant,” I correct, tilting up to kiss the hollow above his collarbone. His pulse answers me.
He drags his knuckles down my spine with enough pressure to make my toes curl. “Say it again,” he says softly.
“That you’re observant?”
“That you’re mine.”
“You’re incorrigible.” I tip my head back and meet his mouth anyway, the kind of kiss that starts simple and ends up not. I feel him smile against my lips like he knows exactly what he does to me, and he’s proud of himself. He’s not wrong.
The bed is ridiculous—wide as a small country—and we’ve used every inch of it tonight. Now everything is slow and melted. The lamp is dim, the curtains open to a scatter of lights below.
“Tell me a thing I don’t know,” he says into my hair. His fingers angle at my ribcage, and I shiver. He notes it because of course he does. “Besides that.”
