He stood, looking around for the bin Atta had brought me with all her nail polish to borrow, setting his hands on his hips. “What fucking color?”
For whatever reason, this side to him made me giddy, and I set the cup on the bedside table and flung myself back, allowing my pillow—hispillow—to soften my fall. I laughed as if someone was tickling me, rocking back and forth. My laughter only grew louder when my eyes finally opened and I found him sniffing the cup, as if the sweetgrass was some other type of grass.
My cheeks were stiff, my chest was burning, and I was almost afraid to look at him again. I peeked my eyes open and instantly regretted it. He was standing with his arms crossed, muscles flexing, a perplexed look on his face as he watched me. He was not kidding around about all the things I was laughing at. I was messing around with him. Or as he would say,fuckingmessing with him.
He sighed. “The hay around here has fucking gone to your head or mine.” He grumbled something about fighting fake elves for feet.Hisfeet. “You’re not well enough to go to the thing that’s planned.”
I popped up, running a hand down my hair. It was standing up straight, as if a chicken had pecked at in my sleep. “No! We end summer this way for as long as I can remember. With the wedding so close, it feels even more special. We must go.”
He eyed me. I eyed him back.
He sighed, longer this time, running a hand through his hair. It was slick with sweat. His t-shirt and sweatpants were saturated with it as well. He had probably woken up before the sun and had been working out for hours. I knew what existedunderneath his clothes and it took all my resolve to keep my face blank—free of any reaction that would put me at a disadvantage. Mariano Fausti’s charm should never be underestimated.
He picked me up, flung me over his shoulder, and slapped myculo. “I’m counting the sneezes, Sistine Evita,” he said, his voice totally serious. “Over a certain amount, we’re coming back.”
I lifted my pointer finger, although he could not see me. “More than one, Mariano Fausti!” I sneezed.
He grumbled something I could not understand, then turned on the shower. He made me wait until the bathroom had lost its chill, steam so thick it reminded me of dense fog, before he undressed me and took me in there with him.
It was that stupid elf that did it. Made me as broody as Mariano could get when something weighed on his mind.
If he was willing to kill a fake elf that had been made up from some fairytale I had probably read as a child, or a sickness inside of me that drove him crazy because he could not fight it with fists, what would happen ifhe found out about Rattler and that night?
Atta was going to come clean with Angelo about the debt the ranch was in, along with Rattler and his family attempting to slither in and buy it, and I was going to be honest with Mariano about that as well.
Time ticked, and the ranch was almost out of the Watt family’s hands. The thought sobered me up, made me feel physically ill, and that feeling of helplessness snuck in through the carefully constructed armor I had placed to keep the memory of that night down.
Because this dark issue had a root. This root could be traced back to that night.
Mariano had his eyes on me as I finished up after our shower. He waited in the doorway, leaning against it. In the mirror, his reflection fused with mine, but where my eyes avoided, his did the staring. He was dressed casually in a flannel, tank top, worn-down jeans, and boots. I had gone casual as well. One of his flannels, sleeves rolled up, a white tank top, and cut-off shorts. I had packed a pair of jeans for later, since the temperature would drop. Instead of my hat, I tied a handkerchief that was similar in color to his eyes around my head.
I looked down.
He had been right. The boots on my feet did tell a story.
They had been with me for almost every life-changing event.
Even meeting Mariano Leone Fausti.
His body waited patiently; however, his eyes told a different tale. So did his muscles. The cords in his neck were swollen, as if the tension could not be contained in the place he kept control of it, and it was wild inside of him, causing him to have a physical reaction to it.
“I am ready,” I breathed out. “We just need our bags.” I went to slide past him, but there was not enough room.
His eyes locked onto mine. I looked away.
“Sistine,” he said, and I could tell he was not messing around as we had been doing earlier. His mood had changed, not even his workout helping ease the tension. He knew something was wrong with me, and he was determined to unearth what I had hidden from the world—hidden from him.
Instead of flaring up and snapping at him, I took his hand in mine, entwining our fingers. My eyes pleaded with him to let it go, for that moment.
“I will wait forever for you,” he said in Italian. “Whatever this is, this hidden thing, I will not wait long for. It is killingyou; therefore, it is killing me. I will not stand for it.” His jaw tightened and his fist clenched at his side.
“I know,” I whispered, and he gave me a serious nod before he led me to the bedroom.
Mariano refused to allow me to carry any baggage, and we walked toward the caravan of waiting off-road vehicles, hand in hand, him lugging both of our bags over one shoulder. He opened the shotgun door and I slid in, reaching over to make sure his door was unlocked. He set our bags in the back and slid in, setting me next to him in one swoop.
I forced a smile on my face and pointed to Angelo’s truck as it bounced down the rough path. Marciano had found a vintage license plate that had “Sissy” on it. Angelo stuck it behind the shotgun seat for Atta.
“Romeo is going to flip!” I almost bounced in my seat, pointing to it. Angelo had told us how much Romeo loved the movieUrban Cowboythe night we had watched it.
