Not having sex with her was killing me—it had been four years of us fucking every night or every other night—but I’d made a rule. No sex right now. We needed a deeper connection.
I finished washing.
I dried off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked into the bedroom.
Sky was tangled in the sheets, her hair wrapped. I slid into bed beside her. She was naked, and her hot skin warmed me instantly.
She stirred, mumbling something in her sleep as she subconsciously shifted toward me. I pulled her back against me. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was frustrated—but as her breathing evened out against my chest, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I just hoped she agreed.
I decided then... I would take her to Sunday dinner.
Let her see the whole messy picture—the meddling mother, the ex “goddaughter” I used to fuck, the loud, loving chaos of my family.
Then let her choose.
Chapter nine
Day Seven
Sky
Fuck, fuck! I was cursing everybody out in my head. I had called Zio ass so many times my screen wouldn’t even scroll anymore. It was just his name over and over. Call. Call. Call again.
It went straight to voicemail every time.
I was standing outside that damn restaurant in heels that weren’t made for standing. My toes were numb, my arms were crossed, and that orange-colored wench at the front kept flipping her hair and telling me—sweetly but fake as hell—that I wasn’t on the list.
“But I’m meeting someone who works here,” I said again. “He’s the chef. Zio Baptiste.”
She blinked slowly, then gave me a thorough appraisal. I was wearing a sweater dress, a trench, and the Hermès boots I had spent a month of book profit on.
“Right,” she said, like she really didn’t believe me. “But you’re not on the VIP list,” she repeated, like I was stupid. “You’re welcome to wait in the regular line.”
I looked back at the regular line. It was around the corner and down the damn street. I was not waiting. It was February inFlorida, but that night it felt like the cold had been saving itself just for me. “But—” I started, but she didn't even let me finish.
“But nothing, You aren’t on the list.” She snapped loudly.
People from the regular sniggered. My blood boiled.
I was embarrassed. I was cold. I was mad as hell. And the longer I waited, the more those feelings started curling into something mean. I just walked away before I did something stupid.
By the time Zio knocked on my front door an hour later, I was already undressed and wrapped in a robe, hair tied up. I was done. I didn’t even want to see him, but I opened the door and walked away without saying a word.
He followed me inside, shut the door behind him, and just stood there for a second. He smelled like the kitchen—spice and smoke and lemon oil—and he still had his apron tucked into the back of his chef pants.
“Why you put the top lock on?” I could hear the annoyance in his voice. I had done it on purpose.
“I tried to call you all night,” I snapped, not even turning around, ignoring his question. “You had me outside begging to get in. Do you know how humiliating that was?”
His voice was calm, too calm for my liking.
“I was working. It was slammed. I didn’t have my phone—”
“You didn’t have your phone?” I turned to face him, heat rushing to my face. “I wasn’t on the list, Zio. The woman at the door acted like I was lying just to get in.”
He exhaled through his nose, already rubbing a hand over his beard, which meant he was getting aggravated. I didn’t care. “I didn’t see the list beforehand. That’s the manager. I told her to put you on. I would’ve—”
