His expression holds nothing I would’ve expected.
No games. No smugness. No punishment for the fact that I snapped at him on Friday and then called him on Monday.
My throat tightens again.
I pick up my fork because if I don’t have something to do with my hands, I’ll break all over again.
I take another bite of eggplant parm.
Then another.
At some point I realize he’s been maneuvering it so I eat more than I’d planned to without making it obvious—sliding the plate closer, angling the bread toward me, putting a couple more potatoes on my plate when I only have one left.
Feeding me without feeding me.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s… kind.
I swallow and look down at my plate.
“This is really good,” I say, because I need to say something that isn’t about fear or loneliness or the fact that my whole life feels like it’s balancing on a thin wire.
Nico’s mouth twitches. “It should be.”
“I’ve never been to Regalia.” I glance at the take-out bags again. “If I’d known it was this good, I’d have racked up a pretty hefty tab by now.”
I take another bite, then a piece of warm bread, and the simple act of chewing comforts me a little.
Nico’s mouth twitches. “It was a special order.”
The reaction puzzles me a bit.
A special order? I’m sure the restaurants in the area take special care when the Contis order. But that doesn’t seem funny.
Well, as close to funny as it gets with Nico, I guess.
So, maybe it’s more personal than that.
A woman?
I don’t know why the thought occurs to me, but it makes sense the moment it does.
I can picture it very easily. A woman— AnItalianwoman, packing everything up with care for him. Probably gorgeous. And tall. With a thick fall of dark hair that he gathers in his fist, that unbreakable grip, and endless legs that wrap around him while he…
I shove another bite of eggplant parm in my mouth to hide the direction my thoughts have gone.
Somehow, he can read me like a damn book, and it would just be the cherry on top of the worst sundae of all time if he senses that I’m jealous.
“It belongs to Bianca.”
Bianca. Perfect fit. Italian, dark hair, long legs. Sultry, sexy voice. Cooks like a goddess, apparently. The exact opposite of me in every way.
“My Uncle Giovanni’s wife,” he continues.
Oh.
I look up to see him with his head tilted just slightly. He’s not smiling, but there’s an air of amusement about him. Then he picks up his own fork and twirls it in the pasta.
