Page 186 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

She reaches over and smacks my arm.

“What?” I laugh.

“I didn’t need to know that about my ex-fiancé.”

I shrug. “Sometimes that man opens his mouth, and I forget my own name.”

“God, I want that,” she blurts out before slapping a hand over her mouth.

I clutch my chest dramatically. “Rosalia Messina. The woman you are becoming.”

“Please stop talking,” she says, face in her hands.

“Absolutely not.”

Enzo brings me back to the estate around five. Rosalia and I lost nearly two hours talking about Sawyer before I convinced her to buy the next book in the series. Next week, we get to discuss Wilder, and honestly, I’m already excited about it.

“Miss Katie,” Beatrice calls from the foyer.

I look up and smile.

“Dinner is ready in the dining room.”

“Is Michael home?”

Her expression turns apologetic. “No, tesoro mio. He didn’t want to interrupt your afternoon with Miss Rosalia, but he asked me to tell you he’ll be home late tonight.”

I frown. “That sucks. We were supposed to hang out.”

“I know,” she says sympathetically. “He mentioned that. He said he would come home as soon as he could.”

I sigh dramatically. “Well, I guess that means you’re eating with me tonight.”

She tilts her head. “Now, you know I have work to do.”

“Like what?”

A grin spreads across her face.

“Exactly,” I say.

I make Beatrice eat with me in the dining room purely so she can witness how ridiculous this table is for two people. I know she’s probably been in this room thousands of times, but she’s never actually had to sit at the massive table and eat dinner at it.

“See?” I say, gesturing around us. “Isn’t this stupid?”

She presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “Miss Katie, you know how important the dining room is to Mr. Amato.”

“I know. I really do.” I wave my hand at the endless stretch of table between us. “But that doesn’t make us look any less ridiculous right now.”

Her composure cracks slightly.

“We don’t even have kids yet,” I continue. “It’s just the two of us sitting at a table built for, like, twenty-five people.”

“But when you do,” she says, resting her hand against my arm, “this room won’t feel so large anymore.”

My gaze drifts around the dining room, and for a moment, I can almost picture it. I see kids talking over each other, chaos happening, and Michael acting strict while being completely incapable of saying no to any of them.

He wants a big family. He’s admitted that much already. At least three kids. Maybe more, if he gets his way.