Page 98 of Out of Control

I step into my brother, my voice soft but my heart firm in every word. “I idolized you growing up, Cruz. In some ways I still do. I’ve helped you with Mamá and Papá—something only we can understand. And I’ve tried to be the person you all wanted me to be. I’ve struggled between being her and being the person I’ve grown into. I love you. With all my heart. I love Maddix. I’ll never stop wanting the best for you, but it’s a two-way street. Being protective is one thing, but clipping my wings is a whole other.”

And with that, I kiss him on the cheek, and then I walk away.

There’s no discussion between us where I ask him not to say anything about Rossi to the rest of our family. I know he won’t.

There’s no talk about whatever he and Rossi fought about. I’ll find out in time.

This was just a big brother realizing his little sister isn’t so little anymore. And it’s the little sister realizing he might need some time to adjust to that.

I walk up the pathway toward the patio where el patriarca sits in his wheelchair and lean down to kiss his cheek.

“I love you. I have to get going, but please know that I love you.”

“Of course you do. You don’t have a choice—you’re stuck with me,” he teases and pats the side of my cheek. “You forced my hand, mija, with the gallery opening.”

All that bravado I just had with Cruz is smothered with the disappointment in my grandfather’s voice. I swallow and lick my lips.

“El patriarca—”

“I’m not happy that you did,” he says. Is that a hint of pride in his voice? Of resignation? “But I can respect you for it. It means you really want this. Who am I to stand in your way from achieving it?”

“Thank you.” I whisper the two words out.

He nods and pats my hand. “Let’s not make a habit of it though.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Rossi

“Are we going to talk about it or are you just going to work yourself sick trying to get this place ready for artmonte-carlo?” I keep my head down, my hands on my screw gun as I finish building yet another display.

But my question is out there.

It’s been two days since she got back from the family dinner at the villa. Two days of her avoiding every possible thing in life but this gallery. Two nights of getting lost in each other—that fiery passion turned quiet, more of a necessity like breathing—almost as if she’s using me to forget whatever happened while she was there. Or to solidify her reasons why whatever happened did in fact happen.

I don’t know the answer because she hasn’t talked.

But I’ve kept my head down and tried to be the person she’s needed when I don’t know what the fuck it is she needs.

I’ve sat with her on my balcony in comfortable silence. I’ve worked side by side with her in this gallery, trying to help her make the vision she has for it come to life. I’ve done everything in my power to please her, to pleasure her, to be whoever she needs me to be in bed so that she can step into her own with the confidence I see her project daily. Something I don’t think she ever lets the world see.

And then after she’s fallen asleep, after she’s snuggled in my sheets, I’ve gotten up and worked in silence to try and help her more. To give her a surprise that’s worthy of her.

I glance her way when she doesn’t respond—yet again. She’s standing in a heap of crates. Each one is a piece of art she’s waiting to display. Her babies. That’s what she’s called them. Her hands are on her hips and her lips are twisted in thought.

Even like this—hair piled on her head, fresh-faced and makeup free—I stop and stare. She’s stunning. Simply put.

“I’m fine. They’re fine. Everything’s fine. I told you—I just have a lot to do,” she says, distracted. “The local artist contest winner will be picked next week. I have all but five pieces in my possession, which is better than I expected to be at this point. I have caterers lined up, but I still need to pick a wine list for the opening. The guest list. Christ, I still need to deal with that. Or should I leave it as an open house? Pull the public in to mingle with the rich so they feel just as coveted. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Her entire ramble is more for herself than to me.

I set down my tools, move toward her, slip my arms between hers and her torso, and pull her back against my front. With my chin resting on her shoulder, I breathe her in. I love the way she leans her head back and rests it against me. Almost as if she finds comfort in me.

I brush my lips against her neck. While her silence is worrying, she came back to me. She’s here with me. If it were something more, she wouldn’t have done that, would she?

“Making this gallery perfect isn’t going to make them love you any less or any more, you know. They love you because they love you.”

But isn’t that the crux of the matter?

She’s busting her ass to try and make her family love her more, like her more, approve of her more, as a means to make up for dating me.