His hair was the color of pure onyx. His skin tan.
His eyes? Ah, those eyes were the color of an olive, though in a certain light, closer to the irises, they were almost...crystal blue. The main color reminded me of peridot, perhaps, but were almost three dimensional with the touch of blue and the black limbal ring keeping the colors contained. When the sun hit his irises, the color almost became translucent; they glowed when the sun infiltrated their depths, making them almost seem…cyan.
His face seemed chiseled out of the most remarkable stone. His cheek bones were high, his nose narrow, and he had a dimple on his chin.
His lips? Full.
His body?Delizioso.He was tall, his shoulders wide, his waist slim. His legs were muscular but not overdone.
His forearms made me salivate—that was how sculpted they were, a reflection of the rest of him.
His hands?
Ah, those hands.
I sighed.
They were perfect—big and capable. His right hand had a tattoo of his family’s insignia on it. A lion with a rosary around his mane, a sacred heart in the center of his chest. I knew the design better than any design. It was one that the designers of their jewelry, including me, drew plenty of inspiration from over the years.
His face, to his chest, to his waist, to his forearms, down to his hands, those legs…all of him…I sighed even louder. As mycuginahad once said about a man in boots…hot damn!
I even dreamt about him during the flight that night.
In the dream, he gave me a bouquet of crimson roses and blood-red buttercups. It was so real that, when I woke up right before the landing, I could have sworn they were going to be in my hands. The perfumed scent surrounded me.
Once the plane fully stopped and the steps were lowered, I got up, still rubbing my eyes and shaking my head. Grabbing my bag, I stepped out into the warm Wyoming light.
It was tradition for me to stop, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I always felt as if I was breathing out one life and settling into another one. Being a Capella and a major figure in the Cappello jewelry business always seemed to be at odds with another side of my life I loved.
Spending time with my aunt and cousins, the people I loved, on their ranch.
An old pickup truck was parked and waiting for me. The windows were rolled down, old country music floating out. My cousin, Atta Cecilia Watts, was waiting with her back against the closed driver’s side door. Her cowboy hat rested low on her forehead, shielding her amber eyes.
Her long blond hair waved gently in the breeze. She wore a white tank top, cut-off shorts that showed off her cut thighs, and caramel boots to her sculpted calves. I could smell the ranch on her, hay and hard work, and underneath it all, her sweet vanilla perfume.
She gave me a cheeky smile, her teeth bright white against her tan skin. “I’d heard a beautiful Italian lady called for some horsepower.”
Grinning, I stuck my thumb out. We had always considered ourselves Thelma and Louise. I would step off the plane, begin my tradition, and end it with Atta waiting for me. She would ask if a beautiful Italian lady needed horsepower and I would stick my thumb out as if I was hitching a ride, then…
We ran for each other.
We collided, wrapping ourselves around each other, hugging so tightly, it almost seemed as if we had turned into octopuses and grown tentacles. My entire being seemed to soak in the warm sunshine from her embrace. She was my very own sun.
“It’s so good to see you, Sis.” She made a growling noise, hugging me even tighter, rocking me back and forth.
“It is so good to see you, Sissy.”
Most people called her Atta, her grandmother called her Songbird at times, but I called her Sissy. She called me Sis.
We seemed to let go at the same time, smiling at each other.
She fixed my hair. “You seem like you had a rough night. Ready to let those horses loose?”
I nodded, wondering how someone who looked so much like my sister could still be a ray of sunshine in my life. I adjusted mybag, and we wrapped our arms around each other’s shoulders as we walked toward the old truck. It belonged to her brother, Ty, but sometimes she used it. It was special to them both. It had belonged to their father.
Judge and Juri poked their heads out the window. Atta rarely went anywhere without her two long-haired German Shepherds. I cooed at them and gave them scratches behind the ears before I flung my bag in the back and climbed in.
Atta started the truck and it rumbled to life, the vibration of it making me feel at home. This time, though, a void like I had never known seemed to surface in my heart and was close to swallowing me whole. I sighed, and though the windows were down, the morning air fresh and cool, Atta heard me.
