"Then what do you?—"
I stand up fast, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that cuts through the moment.
"I'll clean up."
"Enzo—"
I grab both our plates and turn on the water so the sound fills the silence.
I hear her behind me. Standing there, waiting for me to turn around, to explain, to finish what I started.
I keep my hands in the water, start scrubbing a plate that's already clean, keep my back to her because if I turn around I'm going to break.
"Enzo."
"You should get some rest."
Silence.
Then footsteps. Not toward the stairs like I expected. Toward the front door.
I hear it open, hear it close softly, and I set the plate down hard enough that it cracks against the sink.
She went outside.
To the porch.
The same porch where she stood four years ago in front of me in a white sundress and told me she had feelings for me, where I looked into those hazel eyes and lied through my teeth, where I called her pathetic and embarrassing and broke her heart because I thought I was saving her.
I dry my hands and move to the window where I can see her sitting on the top step with her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, staring out at the darkness like it might have answers.
I should leave her alone, should give her space, should let her sit out there in the cold and think about anything except me.
But I can't stop watching her, can't stop remembering how she looked that night. Eighteen and so sure of what she wanted, so sure I wanted it too.
She was right.
She's still right.
And I'm still the same coward who pushed her away.
CHAPTER FIVE
Four years before…
She's wearing a white sundress.
That's the first thing I notice when she walks onto the porch. Thin cotton, nearly transparent in the porch light, showing the shadow of her legs through the fabric, the curve of her waist, the outline of whatever she's wearing underneath.
Or not wearing.
Christ.
I shouldn't be looking, shouldn't be cataloguing every detail like I've been doing for the past year. The way her hair falls over one shoulder when she tilts her head. The way she bites her bottom lip when she's nervous. The way her hips have filled out. The way she moves, walks, breathes.
I'm a sick bastard.
She's Matteo's little sister. Eighteen years old. Off limits in every way that matters.
