Reginald rose too. "I am sorry, Mrs. Bruno, truly I am."
She couldn't even look at him. Adjusting the golden pendant on her neck, the one Papa had given her when they immigrated to Florida, she said, "Today I have not just lost my husband. I have lost everything he worked for too."
With that, the three of us exited the office.
At the hotel, Mama was so upset that she retreated to her room with a water bottle and several seasons of the Young and the Restless. Maria and I went out to get pizza and come up with a game plan.
"If it couldn't be me, because of Papa's obsession with me getting a wife, it should have been you," I said emphatically. "You've worked just as hard for that company as I have."
Maria's mauve lips moved as she chewed the piece of pizza she had taken a bite of. She looked at me sadly and said, "Papa would never have done that. He’s still attached to the old ways. Even me working at the company was a stretch for him."
"Maria," I said, biting into my pizza so savagely I could hear my teeth snap as they tore through the dough. "Him choosing Gino is crazy! He should have known better. Threatening to give the company to him, over choosing you if I don't marry? The business will be bankrupt within a month. This was his life's work, his everything. I just can’t understand—"
"You know Papa wouldn't let that happen, Mimmo. He is trying to back you into a corner," Maria shook her head sadly. "He knows you'd do anything to protect this family."
"Even sell out my private life, my peace of mind and sanity?" I growled at her. "If only he had left directions on where I’m supposed to find someone, in today’s world, who is okay with the idea of an arranged marriage. Someone who is willing to just do this when it wouldn't be real."
An exhale fell out of me. "Five years."
I couldn't even commit to having a dog or a cat. I'd had a fish for a year, and I couldn’t even remember what had happened to the poor thing. In fact, the number of acquaintances, let alone friends I'd had for five years, wasn't even that high. Sure, I had my best friend James. But family came first to me. Always.
The rare times where I wasn't working, locked away in Bruno Industries offices, perfecting old designs or creating new ones, I was at home, with my family; catching up, connecting.
In fact, Mama and Papa had taken it as a personal blow when I'd had to go from visiting every day to only two times a week.
God knows how I was supposed to find the time to dedicate to this relationship, fake or not. Let alone, finding time to be with my family and work.
"Still," I said, finishing my slice, and reaching for another, "We need to get in touch with Gino. He needs to know about this."
"I just worry that he can't... That he won't be able to handle it," Maria confessed.
I shrugged, "I don't even know where he is anymore. I haven't talked to him in... Three months? But that doesn't matter. He has to know."
"If it makes it harder for him to cope—"
I shook my head, interrupting her. "You saw him the last time I did, how he screamed at us to go. He isn't coping. I don't even think he could get much worse."
Maria looked up at me sharply. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Worse would be if he joined the same state as Papa. Gone. Forever.
"God," Maria breathed, "This was supposed to be our last hurrah, our last..." She rubbed at her temples. "You know what," she continued, "I think I’m just going to go back to the hotel. Get some red wine, curl up with Mama, and watch Y&R."
"Haven't you—"
"Yes, I’ve already seen each episode." She looked at me haughtily. "Seven times. And I'll have you know that each and every time, they get better."
I smirked at her, waving her off as she left.
I had tried watching a few of the episodes and could kind of see the appeal. But then Papa had caught me and told Gino, and the two of them had laughed at me so hard, that that was the end of it. It was just like Papa. He meant well, but he was so stuck in the very old, very clear delineations of male and female, man and woman. Women had the luxury of sitting around watching soap operas, while men did the hard work and came home with the money.
It had taken years of Maria sneaking over to Bruno Industries and doing work secretly, without Papa knowing, before I finally pointed out to him it was his own daughter who had designed the bestselling lamp in our catalogue and he grudgingly permitted her to keep working there.
He was just from a different generation. A different world. And now, he had died, and it felt like a little bit of that world had died with him.
My hands gripped the table. I wasn't going to let his company, his legacy—no, our family’s legacy—die with him. Over my dead body.
I wandered out of the pizza shop, the sign a mishmash of Chinese characters. The symbols all looked like interesting scratches to me, like a secret language, kind of like those web fonts in Microsoft Word.
That was what had drawn me to China in the first place. Papa had thrown up his hands and said, "If we aren't going to Italy," which we had all agreed we weren’t, since that was what we'd done every year for our family vacation, "then I don't give a damn where we go."
Maria and I had pulled out a globe and traced our fingers around its beveled surface. She landed on Australia, and I'd landed on China. Mama had weighed in, deciding on China. She said she'd heard that every snake and insect in Australia was poisonous and would kill you. No way would she go to such a godforsaken continent.
So, China it was. What had initially drawn me there was the exoticism of the place. It was literally like a different world.
Now, walking along the river in Shanghai, I realized how absolutely different it was. It was like a sea, a mass of dark-haired waves, crashing against me on every corner. The cars, noisy and puttering on the street, highspeed trains silently moving overhead. The air was clogged with smoke, choking each inhale and exhale, the humidity not helping with the feeling that the next breath would slow your body even more, polluted with the smog.
Seeing the river, shimmering against the buildings and modern landscape, I almost wanted to paint it.
I laughed derisively. That was another thing Papa had scorned me for; of all the artistic mediums, I preferred watercolor the most.
"It's a weak, pastel-y women's hobby," he'd contended, falling deaf to my protests and examples of Durer, Van Gogh, and Prendergast. He'd never taken much interest in art, not that any of that mattered now. He was gone.
The thought jarred me, as I became hyper-aware of my footsteps on the pavement.
My father was dead.
My body came to attention and my eyes searched the surrounding area. That was enough aimless wandering, thinking... I needed something to distract me. Anything.
My eyes flashed over a few signs, taking in their contents. Screw it. Trying to read these symbols was getting me nowhere.
My gaze stopped on the darkened interior of what looked like a regular bar. It was half-empty, but it looked cozy. What patrons were there seemed content.
There was a woman, her profile to me. Her wild dark hair cascaded down her back. I could see her lips formed a half-smile as she sipped at something.
Yeah, a bar was just what I needed.
5
Kandice
Yep, alcohol makes everything right in the world, as Jen liked to say.
Right now, my still freaking-out brain had been subdued into a semi-relaxed state, despite the very real risks I was facing.
It was smart, to be considering the risks, even if I was intoxicated. For some reason, my credit card—one I'd never had an issue with—was suddenly declined. The first issue, just the other day, had been a weird situation. I had attempted to buy my train ticket to Vietnam without success. It wouldn't have been a problem, except that I had no savings to speak of, and I was waiting for my severance cheque from Rayli.
Basically, I felt like a sitting duck. Yeah, I could take off and hitchhike to Vietnam or Laos by myself, escape to Thailand by boat or something, b
ut at this point I was pretty sure I should just try and get to the U.S.; put as many miles between whoever was messing with my life and me as possible.
Being out in public like this was a big, stupid risk. You'd think that people would be put off from murdering a girl in broad daylight, but it wasn't broad daylight anymore. It was nighttime, and I was practically alone in this bar. The drink in my hand was as expensive as two meals, but it was worth it.
Before, I'd been near panic-attack-level scared. Now I was developing-an-ulcer-level scared.
I supposed, as my eyes travelled to another part of the bar, I wasn't as alone as I thought. My quiet bar was attached to a busier one, and beyond the glass wall that separated them, I could see several people relaxing, laughing, drinking; enjoying themselves just as I used to. I had a sense of longing for that naivety, that carefree feeling. It had barely been a week since everything changed.
There was one guy in that other bar, who I’d secretly dubbed Mr. Beefy-McBeef-Burger in my head. He was basically propelling his over-muscled body through the crowd, his shoulders ridiculously large compared to the size of his frame. He kept moving from woman to woman, hitting on anyone and everyone. Some of them took pity on him and indulged him for a moment, but he was insatiable. He had his arm around one for a minute, then moved on to the next within minutes.
I felt kind of creepy, watching this guy so intently. But there was a glass wall separating us and it took my mind off the whole I-might-die-by-murder situation.
Before I knew it, Mr. McBeefy had his sights set on me and was strutting my way, chest puffed, his large lantern jaw set with determination.
"Looked like you needed some company," McBeefy said in a suave tone, that I was pretty sure was not how he usually spoke, "So I thought I'd take it upon myself to pay you a visit. I have an offer for you,” he winked at me. “I'll buy you another drink and keep you company. Just smile for ‘yes’ and do a backflip for ‘no.’"
I eyed him for a moment, waiting for him to realize how lame that was, so that we could laugh, I could congratulate him on a 'good one,' and we could move on... But it never came. He was serious.
He literally just kept his small, watery pig-eyes insistently trained on me, as if he'd just said the most charming, witty thing ever.
Wow.
"What's your name, anyway," he asked, his tone beginning to show his true self.
"Kandice," I said.
I scanned around for the bathroom. Looked like I'd have to rely on ol' faithful.
Just as I was rising, though, another man approached.
"Sweetheart, there you are," he said, his gorgeous face looking at me.
I stared at him. This day just kept getting weirder.
Because as unappealing as Mr. McBeefy-Burger had been from the moment I set eyes on him, Mr. Hello-Dark-and-Sexy was the complete opposite.
The purple flair of his high, silk collar set off his wide, perfectly sculpted broad shoulders and tapered to his waist in a perfect fit. Front and center, a neckline that plunged—in a manly way, low enough to expose just one curl of hair, and a peak of defined pecs. Oh, and the curl—not ostentatious, just... Appealing.
I swallowed. What the hell was up with me? Since when was I the type of girl attracted to a guy’s singular chest hair?
But it wasn't just that. It was his slightly narrowed, wide-set, big brown, smiling eyes. Eyelashes that from here looked like they were rimmed with Kohl; his high cheek bones and proud, full lips, Mr. Dark and Sexy had an effect on me. It was then that I realized I probably should have spoken about three seconds ago, sparing myself the awkward gaping.
"Hey," I said, coaxing some warmth into my tone.
Mr. McBeefy-Burger stood up, muttering to himself about cheating whores.
"He’s going to make some lucky woman’s life hell someday," Mr. Dark and Sexy said, smirking at me.
I just laughed, "Thanks, I was going to handle that by fleeing to the bathroom, but you've saved me the effort."
"And, we get to meet," he flashed me a smile, sitting down. "Two benefits."
"I'm not sure I'll be great company," I said. I gulped again.
Where the heck had that come from? And why was I now, of all times, aware of how I hadn't brushed my hair in days, and how my lips were probably chapped and peeling? Way to think of all this after you’re mere feet away from the sexiest man you’ve seen in months, maybe ever.
"Excellent," he said, "I’m likely to be terrible company myself as well."
Before I could ask, he shook his head. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Bad break up?"
Because I was a journalist, I knew that half of the time a man that looked like him said something like that, he wanted you to work harder to find out what it was he was trying to hide in order to retain an air of mystery for a few more minutes.
"My father died," he said hollowly. Our eyes met.
Damn. Way to misread the situation on a grand, shit-tacular scale, Kandice.
"Sorry," I sputtered, "I—"
He lifted his hand, stopping me. "No, I’m sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have just blurted that out."
"Yeah, today has been that kind of day." I shook my head wearily.
He made to get up, then paused, looking at me.
"I'm sorry. This is probably the worst approach you've ever had in your life—I should go."
"Not at all," I said quickly, flabbergasted he was the one saying it, "I was just thinking that this was probably the worst approach for you, thanks to me."
He sat back down, putting one hand flat on the table, as if he didn't know what to make of me.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
I lifted my glass in a toast. "Well, I've got all night to win that title."
We laughed.
When we finished our drinks, Mr. Dark and Handsome got up to get us more. He came back with two cups of something brown and bubbling. "I’m Giovanni."
"Kandice," I said.
I felt weird sticking out my hand, but before I could retract it, his had slipped into mine.
A jolt went through me at the contact.
Shit.
Yeah, the anxiety stewing in my belly was no longer just from the potential reality of dying any minute. It was also because Giovanni, Mr. Dark and Handsome, was the most attractive man I'd ever been around. Kill me now.
"So, are you travelling?" he asked lightly.
My head was spinning, but his hand was still holding mine, the contact welcome, steadying. The heat of his hand shot straight between my legs, destabilizing the steadiness.
It was when his dark eyes glinted with humor that I realized I'd once again missed my cue to speak. Maybe I'd had enough to drink, or maybe I just needed five years of sleep, or maybe…
"No," I said, then laughed lightly. "People always ask me that. I guess I don't look like your typical Shanghai resident, but I am."
"Me either."
"So... You live here too?" I said, my heart skipping a beat. Maybe staying in Shanghai, even despite the risk of dying, was a better option than I'd given it credit for. Wait. Who was I kidding? No man, no matter how attractive, or cool this guy seemed, didn’t mean he was worth dying for. Please.
"No,” he said, with a light laugh. "I was here on family vacation and then... yeah."
"Damn," I said. "That has to be up there for being one of the worst endings to a family vacation ever."
"I don't know," Giovanni said, "There was this other time when my brother decided to throw a party in our apartment while the rest of the family was out for dinner. We came home to find the entire place trashed, filled with drunken teens who also happened to be rifling through my mother's closets and drawers, looking for her jewelry."
"Oh, wow." I said.
"This is of course worse," Giovanni hedged, "but I only meant that we knew it was coming. Not that it ends up being much of a consolation. It almost made it worse. We hovered around him at the end. I think it annoyed him."
He fell silent.
"I'm sorry, I don't know why I’m telling you any of this." He shook his head, turning to face the other direction.
I clinked the bottom of my glass to his. "More alcohol?"
He shrugged. "I don't usually drink. But, if ever there was a time to drink, it's now." He shook his head, as if to dislodge the thought permanently. "Enough about me. What about you?"
And here it was. The part that I'd been increasingly dreading.
"Well," I searched my brain for a bland fact I could share, one that wouldn't lead to any questions that may unearth the horrible knotted mass of worms of my current situation. I had, after all, come here to escape it. Not recount it.
"You know what?" Giovanni said, "If you'd rather not tell me, then it’s fine."
He lifted his glass to mine and clinked it. "To strangers."
My gaze snuck to his lips. "To strangers," I found myself saying.
The rest of the night unfolded like a piece of Origami. One moment we were toasting glasses again, laughing at something Giovanni had said. The next, he was gazing into my eyes as I told him why I loved journalism; then we were finding out we both loved art. At one point I’d realized he'd moved closer to me, our legs now touching.
Everything seemed punctuated by the heat overtaking me. Starting between my legs, and with every additional word Giovanni said, with every new time our fingers or gazes grazed each other’s, it built. Higher and higher—from my hips to my torso, to my waist, my chest, my neck, until my face was burning, and when he finally pressed his lips to mine, it seemed only natural that I should submit.
He kissed with a forcefulness I’d never experienced. He kissed me like I was his distraction. Like there was no choice, like he was operating on mere instinct, taking whatever he needed. Whatever he wanted.
I needed it too.
We kissed our way out of the bar, past some beefy pig-eyed guy I remembered seeing earlier, as he tried to talk to some girls. We kissed our way into a cab. Although it wasn't just kissing anymore. There was stroking, and groping, and grasping. His face had the slightest edge of stubble that made me groan when he ripped it across my cheek.
Playing Pretend Box Set Page 19