She drew in a breath. This was no time to waste, or worry. She refocused on Vincente and this night she’d been gifted. Under her gaze, his tanned beige skin showed a blush along with his slight smile. Maybe something could be salvaged after all.
Chapter Two
Vincente struggled not to chuckle or fully meet Gina’s curious gaze. He sensed that if he did, Gina might just pop him one, and that wasn’t the kind of touch he wanted from her. She intrigued him. One moment she seemed confident, and the next she quieted, nervous and blushing. Holding her, feeling the subtle dip of her lower back, guiding her in the slow movements of the dance, feeling her soften, talking with her, he wanted more. But it was against his rules, so he needed to wall off his reactions, even the needed laughter. No woman had made him want to laugh with her, to tease her gently, in a long time.
The song ended. She pulled away from him. “I could use a drink,” she said over her shoulder as she walked off the dance floor.
He followed. He tried not to look at her retreating curves and failed. “Yeah.” He needed a shot of something strong to cool this spark in him.
They got to the bar. She ordered a mojito and he a Glenlivet. Vincente motioned her to put away her money. He paid and she gave him a begrudging “Thank you.” They found a small table by the door and slid into the too-close-together chairs. He sipped his drink, while she drank half of hers in a few gulps.
“Thirsty?” He leaned forward. Her scent was like the ocean on a stormy day at the family villa in Italy, the whipping breeze shaking the lemon trees.
Her tan cheeks colored a deepish pink. He shifted in his chair. It was too crowded to cross his legs, so he leaned back and crossed his arms instead. Images of her smiling, parting her lips, leaning into his embrace, flashed into his mind. He took a swig of his drink, willing the images to stop.
“It’s hot in here.” She fingered her glass.
He inclined his head in agreement. Only stupid lines entered his mind, like not as hot as you. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking like that. What was with him tonight?
She folded her little paper napkin into a tiny square. Maybe she was nervous or uncomfortable too. He centered his drink on his napkin. Then he tugged at his tie, which became too tight as she leaned forward. She pressed her hands together. He closed his eyes for a moment to keep from staring at her and then made sure he kept them on the bar area once he opened them again.
“So... Are you close to your grandpa?”
He cut his eyes at her. “Yeah, I guess.” He was not in a mood to discuss his family. The discord between his family and the Marchesis had resurfaced, and he’d been doing double duty trying to soothe Grandpop’s and Uncle Enzo’s battered spirits and spirited arguments over the various conflicts and solutions. He’d hoped to forge peace in a more indirect method than talking about their families. Gina stared at him. He couldn’t tell if her gaze held attraction or annoyance or boredom. Her silence hinted at the last, though he wished it was the first.
“What about you? Glad to be home?” He tried to keep the conversation going.
“In a way. Family... You know, I still remember those conversations we used to have.” Now she appeared almost wistful, her full lips plumping slightly and her eyes tender.
He sat taller, a bit surprised. “I guess you’re still a reader? Heard you and Celeste talking about the Beat Poets.”
“Yep, still a reader.” She ran a finger across the bottom of her glass, her eyes darting. “I... Right now, I’m reading Donna Jo Napoli’s Sirena.”
“Fairy tale retelling. Reminds me of the conversations we used to have.”
“You’ve read it?” She met his gaze, her smile sparkling.
“Yeah, she has some creative takes. Are her books favorites of yours?”
“Yes, and Italo Calvino. And I read a lot of nonfiction and romance.”
Was she also interested in real-life romance? That’s none of your business. “Same. We talked about his folktales... What were you, fourteen?” She nodded, her eyes soft. “I’ll have to get some recommendations from you. Been meaning to try some romance.” He had no idea what he was doing. Stick with the rules.
She gulped her drink and set it down with a nod. Her cheeks still reddened. Was she embarrassed, or just feeling the heat in the room?
He glanced at her drink, almost empty. “Want another?”
“Sure,” she said, sitting tall, drawing his attention again to her abundant curves.
He got up so fast he almost knocked over his chair. With a tug, he pushed the chair in, so it lined up neatly against the table. He pressed his hand on his jacket as he approached the bar. With quick swivels, he checked the table to make sure she hadn’t bolted. His tie was tight. He could barely wait to get home and change. He cleared his throat and stepped up to the bar, ordering her another mojito.
“Anything else?” the bartender said.
Vincente rolled his shoulders. “A Glenlivet.” Why not? He wasn’t driving—he had the limo for the night. But four drinks over an evening was his limit, so this would be it. The bartender passed him the drinks. Vincente paid and thanked them.
He didn’t look at Gina as he sat and handed her drink to her. With a gulp, he swigged the last of his first drink—or make that third.
“Cheers,” she said.
He shrugged and tugged at his tie again. It was way too hot. He ran his finger under his collar. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder. He tensed. Uncle Enzo stood behind him, a broad smile on his face, Celeste on his arm. The two seemed so happy together. Mostly he was glad, though he acknowledged a grain of envy that he hadn’t ever experienced a love like the one they shared, now and with their late spouses. He and his late wife had married out of friendship love, and the practical advantages of being married, of doing what was expected of them.
“Vincente, Celeste and I noticed you two aren’t dancing. If there’s somewhere else you’d like to go, feel free. Celeste and I will be here dancing and connecting with some friends we don’t see often.”
Vincente smiled and rubbed the table with his finger. Gina touched his hand. He froze and drew himself taller, to prevent the jolt he felt at her touch from manifesting itself in some embarrassing way. He turned his palm up to meet hers and ran his finger along the inside of her wrist. Her pulse quickened—or maybe that was his own. He locked his gaze on hers. Something electric passed between them. She returned his touch and leaned in closer.
“I am feeling kind of stuffy in here. Want to go somewhere?” she asked.
He nodded. His arms ached like he’d spent an hour in his home gym, lifting weights and punching the bag. What she’d feel like in his arms, close against him, made his legs tense.
He cleared his throat and turned to Uncle Enzo. “We’ll be back within two hours, okay?”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Uncle Enzo said as Celeste scooted past him, kissed Gina’s cheek, and rejoined Uncle Enzo.
“Okay.” He watched the older couple amble away, their silver-haired heads close together, before turning back to Gina. “How about a movie?”
“No, thanks. I’d prefer somewhere less stuffy.”
“Any ideas?”
She shrugged. Her gaze tracked the other side of the room and she shifted away. “I could use a coffee.”
“We can make that happen.” Though being alone with her was maybe a bad idea. “Doesn’t your dad want you to be here to keep an eye on your grandma?”
“You can’t always get what you want.”
“Don’t I know it.” He knew she didn’t mean him, but he’d had too much to drink. He got cynical and moody with a few drinks, and he didn’t like it—too much like Grandpop in one of his dark moods, not to mention the loss of important filters and rules.
“One of the grand Bianchis, familiar with failure?”
“That’s an assumption.”
“Yes, well, we Marchesis are full of them. And while I want Grandma to be safe, I don’t think she’s in any danger to
night. Prefer to get out of here.”
“I can give you an hour.” He needed to put boundaries around this “date.” More for himself than anyone else. He liked to know where he stood with people. And with her, he didn’t, which was on him in this case. “How about a drive and we’ll see about coffee?” Maybe that would also help sober him.
She nodded. He pulled out his phone and texted Pete, who responded almost immediately that he’d be out front. Vincente squeezed Gina’s hand and rose. She teetered a bit. Their glasses stood empty on the table. He threw down a tip and steadied her next to him. They walked out of the ballroom, into the lobby and down the old stone steps. The limo waited a few yards away. If only his self-control seemed as close, because he seemed to want to touch Gina at every possibility, under the guise of polite helping. The heat he felt with each press of their hands, with every brush of her curves, the connection he’d felt as they talked, though, weren’t helping him be the cool, collected man he needed to be.
GINA LEANED INTO VINCENTE. His solid body grounded her, and his arm around her soothed her in a way she hadn’t been in a long time. His caramel-citrus scent increased her yearning to snuggle into his arms and...those drinks had hit her. She didn’t drink often, so she should’ve known.
The cool night air snapped at her. She jerked away from Vincente when they reached the limo. This wasn’t a good idea. He knocked the sense out of her so much that she couldn’t focus.
Pete Bianchi, a thin, friendly looking guy, held the door for them. She tried to swivel away but tottered into Vincente’s arms instead. She licked her lips. Holding her in his arms for a moment, his touch blasted away her thoughts again. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling for his heart. All she wanted was to cuddle with him and listen to his heartbeat, feel him, like she used to dream of, and still did some nights. He could read to her, something romantic, as they sat together by a cozy fire...
“Come on,” Vincente said, his low tone urgent. He helped her into the limo.
She pressed herself against the far side. Vincente sat near, but not too close. The limo interior was very warm after being outside. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She had to get sober before she went home, anyway. It was clear this whole idea was a disaster. She could barely hold a conversation with Vincente; he’d been the one keeping it going. Nope, she wasn’t going to get anything she wanted tonight, except to be alone with him. Which, like many of her impulsive ideas, either deflated or turned to disaster.
“Where to?” Pete said from the front.
Vincente touched her arm. She sat up with a jump. She exhaled, but her thoughts gasped. Over the years of family drama and failed relationships, she’d tried to close herself off a bit more. But it was like kneading bread, turning in on itself, always exposed, never getting to the resting stage. Her years away from family and her latest year-long dating ban were supposed to fix that, but apparently neither had worked.
She glanced out the tinted window at the muted lights of Nob Hill, the sidewalks bustling with people, the store windows bright, mannequins dressed in stylish clothes and handbags, shoes and jewelry on display, hearts and flowers prominent. The city stretched before her, hilly and close, so unlike the sprawl of LA. The skyline twinkled, San Francisco Bay shimmering in the distance. She closed her eyes and exhaled. She was home again.
“Coffee cart, please,” Vincente said. The glass divider slid shut. Vincente glanced at her.
She edged herself closer to the unyielding side of the limo. His presence seemed to occupy the space, and she wanted to move closer, but she needed a moment, or three, to compose herself, figure out what she wanted to say to him. She tried to watch out the window as the limo started toward North Beach. She tensed, getting too close to home. But then the limo turned, heading to the Marina instead.
Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out the uncomfortable yet thrilling sensations being near Vincente produced. But all she could see were images of them holding hands, cuddling, walking around the neighborhood... She wouldn’t let herself think those silly thoughts again. Her cheeks burned remembering her freshman year notebooks scribbled with “Mrs. Vincente Bianchi” and “Gina Bianchi” and “Vincente loves Gina.” She shifted and her fingers itched to grasp his. She hadn’t been this embarrassed and yearning in a long time.
She cleared her throat, sat up, and opened her eyes. There he sat, handsome and with a wrinkle of concern in his brow, making her go all soft again.
“You okay?” Vincente placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
His touch scorched through her. She dabbed at her forehead. He edged closer, his leg next to hers. His fingers brushed hers. She glanced at him. Fine lines of concern crinkled around his deep brown eyes. She parted her lips. He leaned in, his warm breath caressing her skin. He lifted her hand in his. Then he pressed a gentle kiss on her skin. His fingers grazed her thigh as he shifted, leaving her warm and sighing.
The limo stopped and Gina drew back, inhaling deeply, trying to gather herself. Vincente had just kissed her. She turned away and smoothed her hair to drape on the side of her face, not wanting Vincente to see her cheeks burning. He’d only kissed her hand, but still. Fourteen-year-old Gina would swoon.
He leaned forward, knocking on the glass divider. It slid open.
“I’ve got the door. Thanks,” he said, his tone strained. “Meet us here in an hour, please.”
He opened the door and got out, holding the door for her. She slid out, taking his offered hand. Their palms fit easily together, and she couldn’t stop her smile as she followed him to a vintage cart by the expanse of park on the waterfront. The dark skies pooled over the bay, lights creating shadows and bathing the green in a soft glow. The limo drove away.
“What’ll you have?” Vincente asked.
“Latte?” She wasn’t sure what they had.
He nodded. “Hey, Sara, latte and a black coffee. Have any chocolates left?”
The cute woman with double earrings in each ear nodded and made their drinks. “Sorry, all sold out of chocolates.”
Vincente paid and handed Gina a warm mug. “Thanks.”
“Thank you. Happy Valentines!” Sara called as they walked toward the shoreline.
“Do we return the mugs?”
Vincente nodded as they strolled. “More sustainable. Sara’s a good person. Full of ideas. I come down here to think sometimes. The water’s relaxing.”
She was the same. She’d gotten to the beach in LA as often as she could. Which turned out not to be often. The bay lapped at the shore. Boats bobbed in the docks, not many braving the closing night. The lit pathway stretched ahead. People passed: some couples hand in hand, kids running, lone cyclists breezing by, a few humped figures dotting the grass.
They reached a more secluded spot, a bench perched near the water. “Want to sit?” he asked.
“Yes.” She hadn’t intended to walk far in these heels.
He waited for her to sit before sliding next to her. Once again, he kept a respectful distance. But the cold between them was more than the nippy air. It was as if his kiss on her hand, that moment of closeness, hadn’t happened. She faced away from him, the embarrassment of emotional exposure clinging to her as tightly as her dress.
Silence lingered like a sore bruise. She used to play near here as a girl, falling on the rocks a lot, unlike her brothers, who’d played it safer. Those carefree days, her dad called her his little adventurer, his heir, his princess. Those days were long over. She didn’t bruise anymore. She’d become too hard, so brittle she might shatter, like the delicate meringue cookies she and Grandma Celeste used to make.
Seeing her family again only made her more sure of her idea to save North Beach Bakery. She’d grown up there, at Grandpa Frank’s store, helping Grandma Celeste with the baking, serving customers with her father, stocking the cases and going over the books with Grandpa and then Mom. The bakery was her home, her grandfather’s legacy. Baking had been her te
nuous connection to home for the years she’d been gone. She’d gotten the career she’d thought she wanted, but it hadn’t satisfied. She wanted more: to be a part of Grandpa Frank’s legacy, and begin one of her own.
She gulped her latte, wanting to chase down the lump in her throat.
“In a hurry?” Vincente’s tone held humor. She wasn’t amused.
“What’s to stick around for?” He didn’t know her, and why should he? All the times she thought he’d been listening...not only was that ten years ago, but also, why would a handsome, wealthy young man like he’d been actually have paid attention to her gangly teenage self? Except he had. He even remembered what they’d talked about, at least bits of it. She opened her mouth, ready to say, “You. I’m sticking around for you,” but he spoke first.
“Don’t know—maybe the famous scenery?” He sipped his coffee and leaned his arm across the bench back. His gaze raked over the bay.
“Seen it. Maybe I’ve decided it’s not what I want.” Why did she default to snark? Dealing with Dad for the past few days hadn’t done much for her mood.
“The night was all for charity, anyway. Happy to let you have the limo for the hour—it can take you wherever you want.” He sounded so casual, as if there were no attraction between them. She caught herself from sagging into the bench and forced herself to sit taller. She hadn’t imagined the way he’d touched her, the way he’d met her gaze with an intense earnestness.
But maybe that was just him, being the caring gentleman he’d shown himself to be before, and tonight. Maybe she was just seeing what she wished she could see. That limo couldn’t take her where she wanted to be. She was already with Vincente, and everywhere she wanted to go now seemed like the silly dreams of a naïve little girl.
“Have to finish my coffee. I’m no mug thief.”
“Good to know.”
Valentine Kisses Page 2