“You’re late for breakfast,” Antonella says.
I’m not sure if she’s making a slightly rude observation or if she’s judging me. Her expression is hard to read, and so is her voice.
I nervously tuck a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “I didn’t know breakfast happened at a certain time. I guess Alessio let me down. Speaking of him, where is he?”
“Not here,” Lucky says around a mouthful of syrup and pancake.
The band squeezes some more. I try to focus on small things. The clink of silverware on plates. The scent of maple syrup that reminds me of happier days when my sister and I would sit at the kitchen island as kids, watching our mom make us chocolate-chip pancakes shaped like unicorns and zoo animals. The sizzle of the pan.
“Have a seat and eat some pancakes,” Bianca invites warmly. “Mom tripled the recipe. We’ll be eating these things for days if you don’t help us out.”
I feel a little like I’ve walked into a cozy family reunion. Without Alessio here, I’m the odd woman out.
“That’s okay,” I say hesitantly. “I’ll just go and read a bit until Alessio gets back.”
Hopefully he’ll be back soon. I try not to think about his absence or what it means. And I definitely can’t allow myself to think about what will happen if he doesn’t come back. If something happens to him out there. Because really, anything could. Those Russians are dangerous…
No. I tamp down my intrusive thoughts and turn to leave the kitchen.
“Wait,” Camilla says. “You must be hungry, and who knows how long Saint will be gone. Lucky said it could be a while.”
Lucky shoots me an apologetic look but keeps shoveling pancakes into his mouth.
“There’s plenty of pancakes,” Antonella adds from the stove. “Sit. Eat. You need some more meat on those bones anyway.”
In my opinion, there’s plenty of meat on my bones. I’m short, but I’ve got curves. But I don’t want to be too defensive. I feel like I’m treading on eggshells wherever I go.
“Okay.” I settle into the chair next to Bianca, and within thirty seconds, Antonella is handing me a piping-hot pile of pancakes.
“It’s an old family recipe,” she tells me. “I used to make these for the boys when they were younger. There were never any leftovers.”
It’s a brief glimpse into Alessio’s childhood. I hear the fondness in Antonella’s voice, the nostalgia. And not for the first time since finding out about her reappearance in his life,I wonder what could have driven her to abandon four children and then raise two others somewhere else.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Alessio’s mother is nothing if not efficient. She hands me a mug of coffee and fresh silverware next. “You’re welcome. Napkins are on the table. You take cream in your coffee?”
I don’t usually drink it, but I don’t want to be rude, and I feel like I’m a guest at someone else’s house, so I say, “Please. That would be great.”
She places a small pitcher of cream on the table in front of me and then slides a sugar bowl over too. “Drink and eat up.”
“Thanks so much.”
I add cream and sugar to the coffee and give it a stir, then take a sip, trying not to wince at the bitter strength of the brew.
“So, Isla,” says Bianca, “how long have you and Saint been dating?”
I almost spew my coffee all over the table. At the last second, I manage to swallow it, but it’s scalding hot as I choke it down. For a few moments, my only response is a coughing fit.
“Sorry,” I wheeze. “We’re not dating.”
Bianca’s face falls. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“But I thought…”
Her words trail off when Camilla gives her a meaningful look across the table.
