After the main course, we ate the cake I’d had one of the men fly to New Orleans for. Scarlett’s favorite bakery was there. The smell of almond and icing floated in the air around us as we devoured the cake with our spoons and drank our champagne.
Afterward, she wanted to get comfortable. So did I. I threw on a pair of sweatpants and left it at that.
“We’re getting old,” she said.
“No, just busy.”
“Yes,” she said, the sadness in her voice unmistakable. “Too busy.”
She wanted a few more minutes to get ready for bed, so I left her in our room while I stoked the fire on the first floor. Her bare feet padded along the steps fifteen minutes later, and I turned to see her floating down once more, her face sans makeup, but her hair still in big waves. It created a halo around her head.
The cream lingerie she wore, detailed with lace around her breasts, made her skin glow as pure as snow. I didn’t even have to ask. I knew it was Italian.
She reminded me of a modern-day Rita Hayworth with darker hair, more auburn, and stunning green eyes.
“Hello,” she said, her voice sultry, though she wasn’t aiming for that.
“Hey,” I said, every ounce of me absorbing her.
She pointed to the stereo. “Musica?”
I nodded. “I’d never miss a dance with you.”
“Bene.” She fiddled with the stereo for a moment, and then a slow song started to float.
I laughed when the singer began her part. Then her male partner joined her. “I Hate You Then I Love You.”
“Trying to tell me something, Ballerina Girl?”
“Music can be our words when we have none to speak,” she said, a precise note to her voice. She showed me her arm. Goosebumps puckered her skin, and the light seemed to dance across them.
“Music frisson,” I said. Scarlett loved the opera, along with all of the Broadway shows. She had an appreciation for art, for all things beautiful.
“No.” She looked down and shook her head. “You.”
I ran a fingertip along the straps of her lingerie. She looked up at me, meeting my eyes, letting the connection flow.
“Cosabella,” I said slowly, rolling my tongue.Beautiful thing.“Dance with me.”
I started to move her around the living room, following the tempo of the song. Each turn revealed walls and walls of roses. But my eyes were on her. When she danced, she created art.
Neither of us could sing, but she did. I grinned at her and then did my best to sound like Pavarotti. She laughed at that, too. We continued this back and forth, until our voices met in the middle.
“That’s the truth, Ballerina Girl,” I said, dipping her on the last note.
“Mi porti a letto,” she said, when I brought her up. Her heart beat against me. “Adesso.”Take me to bed. Now.“I need to feel you.”
“Dove?” The word sounded more likedough-vay.Where?
“Inside of me.”
I was dimly aware that the song was on repeat, and she was struggling to talk to me as I carried her toward the kitchen table.
“Don’t tear this one!” she pleaded when our lips parted. “It’s special!”
I placed her down on the kitchen table, and she rested on her elbows, her legs splayed. I came in-between, pushing them further apart.
“I’ll buy you ten more. In all different colors.”
