Footsteps moved across the floor, each woman appearing one at a time, passing me on the steps. The unknown woman stopped when she came to me, looking up at me with wide eyes.
I grinned at her.
“OhmyGod,” she said. “Are you Romeo?”
“No,” Scarlett said. “Brando. He’s mine.”
The woman stuck her hand out. I took it.
“Brrrando,” she breathed, attempting to do an Italian accent with my name. “I’m Alma.”
I nodded, releasing a breath, attempting to take my hand back, but she held tight.
“You have minty breath,” she breathed out.
Juliette laughed. “Alma works with me. That’s her husband, Al.” She nodded to the tidy man. Then she nodded to Romeo. “He’s mine, Alma.”
Alma looked at Romeo and then at me. She swallowed loud enough for me to hear. “Neither here nor there, really,” she whispered. Then her eyes roamed over to Rocco, laughing with Tito, and then Dario, plucking an olive from a bowl on the table. She even gave Mick a long glance.
Juliette took her by the shoulders, still laughing, and our hands lingered until Alma was forced to let go.
“Another in the bag, Fausti,” Scarlett said, her laughter floating as she went to breeze past me.
I stopped her before she could get far, pulling her against me with enough force to make her gasp. “Kiss me,” I said.
She ran her hands along my chest, over shoulders, to rest her cool hands against my neck. I leaned down so she wouldn’t have to stand on her toes. The kiss started out slow, and then it started to become something else. Our tongues touched and hands started to roam.
A throat being cleared paused our start. Judging by the look on Al’s face, this wasn’t the first time he had tried to tactfully interrupt. Our lips parted, but our bodies stayed together.
Al pointed upstairs. “I was told there is a restroom?”
Scarlett nodded and moved in even closer so he could pass.
“It’s two flights up,” I said, not comfortable with a total stranger alone in our room. Men were on the second floor; five-times-a-week-Al could use one of theirs.
“Uh,” he said, pausing a few steps up. He didn’t turn. “This isn’t one of those kinds of parties, is it?”
“Those kinds of parties?” Scarlett’s face scrunched up.
“Yes, you know.” He gulped. “Thosekinds of parties.” He turned to us, wiggling his eyebrows. His face was on fire, matching his hair.
I caught his meaning clear enough, but I wanted him to struggle. What kind of people did we fucking look like?
“Tell me if I look like the kind of man who shares what’s mine, Al.” I made my face go purposely blank.
“Uh, no,” he said, his voice almost apologetic. “It’s just that—there are a lot of beautiful people here. I thought—the two of you—doing that—” He laughed, nervous. “I’m sorry!” Then he ran up the steps, his loafers carrying him as fast as cross-trainers.
Scarlett turned her scrunched up face to me. “Do we look like the type of people to hostthoseparties?”
“No.” I led her down the stairs, directing her toward the boxes and heirloom Santa.
I actually felt bad for Al, which was rare, but given the circumstances—five times a week—I almost gave him a pity pat on the shoulder.
We put heirloom Santa next to the tree and turnedIt’s A Wonderful Lifeon the television. Everyone in the house gathered around the tree, and we unpacked the boxes and decorated. All thoughts ofthatkind of party were erased from Al’s flushed face as he helped decorate our tree and watched the wholesome movie on TV. Eunice had a buffet going, along with enough alcohol to rival a pub in the city.
An hour or so later, a knock came at the door. All of the men glanced at each other, on alert. Guido answered it.
Mitch came in, head down, shoulders full of snow. He seemed hesitant—he hadn’t taken off his coat or boots. The room went silent.
