“I haven’t told my parents yet.” I don’t know why I admit that, but she’s so easy to talk to. “They already think I’m impractical enough.”
“Parents always worry. It’s our job.” She glances at Matteo, and something passes between them. “But a woman who knows what makes her happy is not someone to worry about. She’s someone to admire.”
Warmth spreads through my chest like melted honey.
I could get used to this. Weekly dinners and authentic Italian food and a mother-in-law who treats me like I belong.
The thought terrifies me.
Not because it isn’t real. But because I think I might want it to be. And I have no idea if Matteo does.
I clear my throat, grasping for safer ground.
“I’m going wedding dress shopping with my family on Thursday,” I announce. “Would you like to come with us?”
Ma’s face lights up. “Oh, I’d love that!”
Matteo catches my eye across the table. He holds my gaze longer than usual.
After dinner, we clean up together. Ma washes, I dry, and Matteo puts everything away without being asked. It’s so domestic it makes my eyes sting.
When it’s time for her to leave, we walk her to the door together. She hugs Matteo first, murmuring something I can’t hear. He nods, jaw tight.
Then she turns to me, pulling me into another warm embrace.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say. “And for... everything.”
She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face. “It was my pleasure, dear. I’m so glad I finally got to meet you.”
Then her expression shifts. Something knowing settles into the lines around her eyes. “You two keep telling yourselves this is pretend.” A smile tugs at her lips. “I’ll keep pretending to believe you.”
Before I can respond, she kisses my cheek and heads for her car.
I glance at Matteo. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“She likes you.” His voice is quiet.
And the way he’s looking at me right now makes me wonder if he’s still talking about his mom.
27
MATTEO
“I don’t like this.”
Sierra stands in the center of my home gym wearing a blue tank top that’s painted onto her generous curves and black leggings that should be illegal. The sleeve of flowers on her arm catches the light as she stretches.
She glances down at herself. “You don’t like my outfit?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” I force my eyes to her face. “I don’t like looking at you the way an attacker would. Finding the weak points.”
Her smile falters for half a second. The look of someone remembering something they’d rather forget. “Is that really necessary?”
“If I’m going to give you self-defense lessons, yes.”
I close the distance between us. She smells like vanilla and something floral, and I have to remind myself why we’re here. Not for what my body wants. For what she needs.
“I can teach you strikes,” I tell her. “Elbows. Palm heels. But what matters is escape. If someone grabs you, your only goal is to get free and run.”
