He glares at me. Eyes all molten with his frustration.
I give him a pat on his delightfully defined bicep. “I know you are a dangerous man, but you’re also the man who brings me gelato when I’m sick and remembers my birthday when my own family forgets.”
Carlo jerks. A physical recoil as if I’ve slapped him. But he stays silent and allows me to continue. It is either that, or he is lost for words.
“I’ll be such a good wife to you, Carlo. I’ll cook and clean and take care of all the domestic things so you can focus on your work. And I’ll never complain about anything, never make demands. I know how to make a man happy.”
The word ‘wife’ seems to hit him like a sucker punch. His whole body goes tense, and something flickers in his eyes that might be panic or might be something else entirely.
“You’re not my wife,” he says, but his voice is rougher than it was a moment ago.
“Not legally,” I agree. “Not yet. But in every way that matters, isn’t that what this is? I take care of you, you provide for me, we share a bed...” I trail off, letting my gaze drift down his body appreciatively. “We’ll share everything else soon enough.”
I can see him trying to process this, trying to find arguments against my perfectly reasonable logic. But what argument could there be? This is how relationships work. One person takes care of the other, and they build a life together.
“And think about the dinner parties we could have,” I continue excitedly, the ideas flowing now like water from a burst dam. “We could host Dario and Molly, as well as Nicolo and Liam. Proper couple’s dinners, with real china and flowers from our garden. Well, the garden we’ll have when we get a proper house.”
Carlo’s expression shifts to something that might be horror. “Dinner parties?”
“Of course! We’ll be part of that social circle now, the established couples. I’ve been watching how Molly managesDario’s entertaining, and I could do so much better. The menus alone need serious improvement.” I bounce slightly on the bed, warming to my theme. “I could do that amazing osso buco recipe my nonna taught me, and pair it with a proper wine selection. Not whatever swill Molly usually serves.”
I can see Carlo trying to picture it, his brain clearly struggling to process the image of domestic dinner parties while he’s currently chained to my bed. It’s adorable how his mind works, always trying to categorize and understand things that are perfectly simple.
“I’ve actually been thinking about children too,” I add casually, straightening his pillow even though it doesn’t need it. “Not immediately, of course. We should have at least a year to ourselves first, to really establish our rhythm. But eventually.”
The color drains from Carlo’s face. “Children?”
“Well, naturally. You’re thirty-four, I’m twenty-one. Perfect timing, really. You’re established enough to provide stability, but young enough to be an active father. And I’ve always wanted children, lots of them.” I smile at the thought. “We could adopt, or find a surrogate. I know people.”
Of course I know people. I’ve been planning this for years, thinking through every possible contingency. The Torrini family might have their faults, but they do have connections in every industry imaginable, including ones that help unconventional families grow.
“I was thinking maybe three or four children,” I say dreamily. “Close enough in age to be friends, but not so close that it’s overwhelming. The first one could have your eyes, they’re so beautiful. Dark and intense, just like you.”
Carlo looks like he might be having some kind of breakdown. His breathing has gotten shallow, and there’s a wild look in his eyes that’s absolutely fascinating. I love seeing him process newinformation, watching his careful control slip as he realizes how thoroughly I’ve thought this through.
“Ginni, you can’t seriously think this is going to happen?” he manages.
“Of course I’m serious. I don’t say things I don’t mean.” I trace a finger along his forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles. “I know it’s a lot to take in all at once, but you’ll adjust. You’re very adaptable when you want to be.”
I stand up again, too excited to stay still. “We could convert the spare room upstairs into a nursery. It gets lovely light in the afternoon, perfect for nap times. And there’s that little alcove that would be ideal for a reading corner once they’re older.”
The spare room that currently serves as storage for all the family’s unwanted furniture, shoved away like everything else they’d rather not acknowledge. But it could be beautiful with the right touches. Soft colors, quality furniture, everything a child could need to feel loved and wanted.
That’s if we stay living here of course. We might buy our own home and make it perfect.
“Your children would never be hidden away in basements,” I say softly, and something in my voice must change because Carlo’s expression shifts. “They’d never be treated like something shameful that needs to be kept secret. We’d make sure they know they’re loved exactly as they are.”
There’s a long silence, and I can see something working behind Carlo’s eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of why this matters so much to me.
“I could tell you were happy yesterday,” I say softly. “After dinner, you looked so content. So peaceful. You never look like that at family dinners or business meetings. Only here, with me, when you let yourself relax.”
“That’s not...” he starts, but I can see the uncertainty creeping into his expression.
“You like the picture I’m painting,” I observe with satisfaction. “You’re just scared because it’s different from what you planned for your life. But sometimes the best things are unexpected, don’t you think?”
I move to the dresser and start rearranging the bottles of cologne I’ve collected over the years. Some of them are ones Carlo has worn to family gatherings, scents I’ve memorized and treasured. Soon I won’t need to rely on memories and stolen moments.
“Picture Christmas morning,” I say, my voice taking on that sing-song quality it gets when I’m really lost in a vision. “Our children running down the stairs in their matching pajamas, you making coffee while I start breakfast. The tree we picked out together, presents wrapped in paper I spent weeks choosing because every detail matters when you’re building traditions.”
