“I know.” I squeezed his hand. “But knowing that you’ll be my husband does something to me. I can survive this now. I know what it is that I’m fighting for.”
“Does something to you.” He laughed again. “Like my cologne on your pillow.”
“Beyond weird.” I tucked my lips in, trying not to laugh.
“Effingweird.”
I smacked him with my free hand.
“Husband abuse is a real thing. You’re doing it already.” He shook his head. “All right. But one more deal.” He lifted his pointer finger.
My eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“The black box in your room. The one with the rose,” he motioned around his chest. “That’s for me. After the wedding.”
We shook again.
“That’s a deal I’m willing to make.Oui.It’s yours.”
“Sei mio.” He pulled my hand to his mouth and placed a warm kiss on my ring finger. “You’re mine.”
Always have been.
Chapter Twenty
Scarlett
The weather had turned warmer, and with it, Paris buried the cold and brought forth the new. The air twirled with balmy winds, ripples sending sun toasted breezes and the scent of budding flowers through the streets.
I took a seat in the direct glare on a wrought-iron bench, enjoying the connection and the view. Cherry blossom trees lined the sidewalk, just opening up to the snug dawning of each new day. The sun that rose in spring seemed to shimmer in between the delicate pink petals, stealing a bit of the soft palette, coloring the world with pastel hues.
Checking my watch, I sighed. Brando was never late. I had been waiting for him for over an hour. If he didn’t attend my rehearsals, he always met me afterward, not a second off. And he always came bearing the gift of snacks. Most of the time my usual of pear and sparkling water.
His plane was scheduled to leave in seven hours and I missed him already. Closing my eyes, I opened myself up to the absence, testing the waters. He had been filling all of the empty spaces in my life, and there was no need to indulge in unneeded suffering.
I wasn’t going to like the separation, but I could bear it. For him, I would.
People were easy enough for me to read, given the fact that this peculiar sense I carried with me seemed to thrive on an unusual amount of empathy.
Brando was different. It took me some time to figure out his methods at times. If we were connected through blood, he had found a way to hide from me like no one else could. On the other hand, he couldn’t hide from me, even when he wanted to at times.
Time alone, in the bathroom at my parents’ apartment, had given me the opportunity to make sense of his need to be the one to support the house on Snow. It all came down to a sense of male pride. For him, what it meant to be a man.
A shaky breath released from my mouth, and instead of concentrating on the void, I smiled, thinking of him.
That morning we had stopped at a market on the way to practice, picking up a few fresh things. He had held two grapefruits, one in each hand, and had been weighing one against the other, the look on his face asking me which one I had wanted.
A woman standing next to me stared—if they were hot blooded for men, most of them did—and when he squeezed, she sucked in a breath, her cheeks turning red.
It was such an innocent thing to do, unless you added Brando Fausti to the scene. He had no clue. I had laughed until I cried.
I found that I was laughing then, the memory filling the empty space.
“See,” I whispered to myself. “You can do this.”
Perhaps because I was so busy occupying my own time, I didn’t hear the cries at first. As the daydream faded into reality, the noise made me search for the source.
A little morsel of a girl sat on a stoop, her body bent forward, hiding her face in her arms. Dressed in all pink, she had a curly caramel mane that was puffier than her tutu.
