The dumb was starting to fucking show in me too.
I’d never felt attraction so strongly, and I had no clue what it was about her that pulled me forward like a magnet to its home. Even though the cowgirl boots made sense, paired with the music, she had immediately embedded herself underneath my skin, and I needed more. I needed her to tell me why she was listening to country music, what was it about the genre that she enjoyed, and why were her boots so worn. Though she could have broken them in by just wearing them around Italy, something told me there was more to the story of those boots than what met the eye.
Those boots had seen more than walking time. Those boots had seen some hard work.
I’d blinked myself back into focus, and the room had still been staring at me. I stared back. My grandfather eyed me for a second, then turned his stare toward Sistine. Her eyes had moved up, and when she caught his stare, to her credit, she held it for a second before she turned her eyes down and got back to work. Her sister made a quiet, but deep, frustrated noise from her throat before she took a step in front of Sistine. Adone, respectfully, had gotten back to business again.
Sistine refused to meet my eyes again until right before we left. I’d written an old country song down on a piece of paper andslipped it on her desk. She looked at it, at me, and then torched the piece of paper.
“Damn,” Marciano had whispered, shaking his head. “That woman loathes you.”
Not hate.
Loathes.
I squeezed his shoulder, grinning, and when her eyes met mine again, she scrunched her nose up, picked up her torch, and pressed the button, sending a small blast of heat my way. I’d exploded with laughter.
I was still laughing.
It had taken me off guard—was still taking me off guard. It was the cutest fucking thing a woman had ever done. I’d never forget it.
Marciano had said my laughing was a testament to my psychotic meter being high when it came to the opposite sex—the more unhinged, the better—but it was the fucking truth. Something about her reaction to me presented a challenge. I demanded to know whether she’d really set me on fire.
“Son,” a deep, gravelly voice called in Italian from the shadows as my hand came to the door that led outside and into the foggy morning air.
My father stepped out of the murky darkness and into my view. He was dressed to run. In this, we bonded. We both enjoyed releasing stress this way. It was either run or fight to release the tension. Or find a woman to lose myself in for a while. For my old man, that woman for him had always been my mamma.
He’d never been able to see past her. They say a man’s heart controlled him when he fell in love. Watching my father all those years, I was sure the heart was the commander of the feet. Brando Fausti could never move past Scarlett Fausti, and if forced to, his heart stayed with her.
He must have been keeping her close before he left their room. I could smell roses on him in the crisp morning air.
“Father,” I said in Italian, giving him a nod.
Mamma’s hand slid from his side, and she appeared from behind him. She was wrapped in a pink silk robe, and her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was a mess. Papà had kept her up all night.
She smiled at me. It was the warmest thing about the morning. I smiled back, and she sighed and touched my cheek. “My runner,” she whispered, then stood on her toes, the most graceful being I’d ever known, and placed a kiss on my cheek. “No daring your father to swim in the canal, ah?”
“Ah,” I said, smiling at her.
“It comes so easy,” she whispered, looking between me and my old man. “That smile. My husband’s smile. My heart is…so full.” She went to walk off, and my father took her by the wrist before she could get far. He pulled her in and she gasped, probably at the power in the move, a tear sliding down each cheek. He dried them, then touched his lips with the same finger he’d used.
She stood on her toes and kissed him, then patted his cheek. “I’ll have breakfast ready for my hungry pride when it’s time.”
He stared into her eyes so long, and so hard, I turned and walked outside. It was time for me to go when she started to blush.
He’d never bailed on a run with me before, but when it came to mamma, he would. Maybe she was having a blue morning. But a minute or so later, he stepped out, his strong form standing next to mine.
Our temperatures ran hot, and his fire was mine. In the morning air, it seemed like our smoke was coming together and forming the mist around us. It was so thick, we were lost in it. I could smell the harsh scents of the canal through it.
My old man rolled his shoulders. “There’s a first time for everything,” he said. “But this’ll be the first time I’ve ever run over water.”
His comment was unexpected, and a grin appeared on my face. “I gave mamma my word,” I said. “No daring you to swim in the canal.”
“I’m not messing around!” Mamma called from behind the door. “I’m not dealing with vicious cases of pink eye. Read what happened to Audrey Hepburn when she fell in that water, then come talk to me!”
My old man and I looked at each other, and our grins came slow—at the exact same time. He shivered, and I did too—at the exact same time.
“We’ll take one of the gondolas.”
