by Nichole Van
He drew lazy circles on my back.
“You wanna talk about the tears? I don’t think they were happy ones.”
I sniffled.
“Are you sure you want to go there? I’m liable to get your nice t-shirt all wet,” I mumbled.
He exhaled, a rumbly sound under my ear. His hand tightened around me.
“Carissima, you can destroy every shirt in my wardrobe if it means I can be the one to dry your tears.”
His words were a dagger to any lingering hope that I wouldn’t fall completely in love with him.
“Tell me what’s upset you,” he murmured.
I shrugged. “I was just sitting here, thinking about my birth mom. She saved us in the end, but the vision of her dying—”
I stopped, forcing myself not to dwell on the image of my birth mother’s death.
Tennyson’s arms tightened around me. “I know, cara. I know. She was so brave. True courage. It’s no wonder I thought she was you in my vision.”
Right in the feels with that one.
“I’ll never know any more of her story now. Just that she was a gypsy of Roma descent.” I let out a steadying breath. “Until today, I hadn’t realized how much I held on to the idea of finding my birth parents at some point. I always assumed someone in the world had to share my genetics. I love my adopted parents and I don’t want to swap them out, per se. But . . .” My voice drifted off.
“But?” Tennyson prompted.
“But I had just assumed that someday I might know my biological parents, too.” I sniffled. “Now I know. There is no one. Any close family members are long dead and gone.”
I snuffled again, letting the tears fall.
Tennyson continued to run a hand up and down my back, soothing me. “From everything I gather, it sounds like your birth mother desperately loved you.”
“Yeah,” I sniffed. “And I got to meet her, no matter how brief.”
“I saw her in my visions, over and over,” he said. “And every time, she sacrificed her life fighting that daemon. She died so you could live. I can’t think of any greater love than that.”
My adopted mom’s words from two weeks ago popped into my mind: I love you. I love you without reservation. I want you to be happy.
Love flooded me.
I loved both my mothers.
I loved the woman who had sacrificed herself for my life.
I loved the woman who had accepted me and raised me and loved me.
Not everyone had a chance to have two loving mothers, and I would always be grateful for that.
We talked some more, me telling him about my adopted mom and our conversation. How she had helped us digitize the D’Angelo archive.
But after a while, we settled into companionable silence. Tennyson continuing to hold me. Me trying to get my head around the fact that Tennyson ‘Freaking-Amazing-in-Every-Way’ D’Angelo was wrapped around me.
Because . . . wow.
He chuckled, a breathy, low sound.
“What?” My voice was muffled.
“Nothing really. Just thinking that this is how we started. You and me as newborns, cuddled together in a hospital bassinet.” A pause. A couple more passes of his hand. “It’s nice.”
I burrowed closer. It was nice. Extremely nice.
Excitable goosebumps nice.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said after a moment.
“Of course.”
“It’s a fairly junior high kinda question.”
I stilled.
“Just warning you,” he continued.
“Uhm. Okay.”
“Do you like me?”
Was he freaking serious?
I sat up a little so I could look at him. Huh. Even in the dim light, he appeared earnest.
“Yes, I like you,” I answered. “You’re a very likable guy.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, I warned you that it was a junior high question. I mean, do you like-like me?”
Duh. What kind of question was that?
“Of course, I like-like you.”
“Are you sure? I can give you the questions in hand-drawn questionnaire form. Do you like Tennyson D’Angelo, check yes or no?”
I pretended to think about it. “A visual might help. What other questions would be on the quiz though? I might need a study partner.”
That got a smile out of him.
“Well . . . other questions would be: Do you enjoy spending time with Tennyson?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to spend more time with Tennyson?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re doing excellent so far.”
“Thank you. Though, I have to say, at this point in the quiz, I might start to think that Tennyson D’Angelo is little insecure to need so much reassurance from me.”
Silence for a moment. And then his voice, quiet in the night. “He is a little insecure. Because he desperately like-likes you back, and it will shred his heart if you don’t ace the quiz.”
My own heart sped up.
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I heard Olivia Hawking has the most enormous crush on Tennyson D’Angelo. It’s, like, massive.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She filled an entire notebook during Geometry writing his name with hers, over and over—Olivia hearts Tennyson and Tennyson plus Olivia 4eveh.”
“Wow. That’s about as serious as a crush can get.”
“It is.” I tried to sigh but ended up smiling instead. “Of course, I figured my enthusiastic kissing probably clued you in, too. But I can make my crush clearer. I’m completely open to the challenge.”
“Challenge accepted.”
“Are there any other questions?” I asked.
“Just one.” He paused. “Can we start our kissing challenge now?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
His lips tentatively brushed mine. The barest whisper of sensation.
Then again, more intent.
A third time, lingering, tasting, exploring.
I threaded my fingers into his hair, arching up into him.
And still Tennyson took his time, carefully, thoroughly.
Everything about kissing him was so . . . Tennyson.
Sweet. Achingly tender. Unexpected.
And a whole lot of sexy.
I accepted in that moment, that this was the real man.
Not the hot guy exterior.
Not the nerdy, sometimes awkward interior.
No more Venn diagram trying to separate him into pieces and parts and labels.
Just Tennyson.
And the wholeness of him being mine.
THIRTY TWO
Olivia
The next six weeks passed in a blissful haze.
I stayed in Italy, firmly ensconced with the D’Angelo family. And they were a family.
Villa Maledetti hummed with life. The family had their large palazzo in central Florence, but with the return of Cesare and the boys’ newfound freedom in life, everyone had decided to hold an impromptu family reunion at the family estate instead.
The brothers continued to commute into Florence for work—Branwell’s comment being, “Someone’s gotta keep this family afloat.” The changes in their GUTs had altered how they worked their business, but the brothers, particularly Branwell, had genuine skills honed through years of work and research. That, along with the D’Angelo name and Claire’s expertise, ensured that D’Angelo Enterprises would continue to flourish.
The party would have wound down after a couple days, but Jack proposed to Chiara (Spoiler alert: She said yes.) and that resulted in several weeks of giddy preliminary wedding planning. Chiara was beside herself with glee over being the center of attention. At least that was Dante’s dry assessment of it all.
As for Tennyson and I . . . well, we spent those weeks with each other.
We took long car rides and Tennyson showed me every corner of Tuscany th
at he loved.
We spent long hours talking about my passion to help refugee children, and he discussed the plight of Afghani orphans. From there, the discussion morphed into the Roma in Italy, their poverty and needs. Both he and I felt responsible to better uphold the promises Giovanni had made.
We chatted with the entire family and everyone agreed: the D’Angelos would create a foundation with the aim of working with zingari. Given the hostile climate toward the Roma in Italy and the Roma’s mistrust of outsiders, it would be a difficult, uphill battle, but I knew firsthand that kind of work was the most rewarding.
I shared Thanksgiving dinner with the D’Angelos and joined in all the post-feast football watching.
So . . . that was normal.
Tennyson also introduced me to his lifelong love of Mystery Science Theater 3000. I would never be able to watch an old movie again without hearing robot commentary in my head.
I shared with him my secret love of My Little Pony and tried to convince him to become a brony with me (brony = an adult obsessed with My Little Pony), but Tennyson simply laughed and said he preferred to be a brony supporter.
But then he did watch all twenty-six episodes of season one of My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic without complaint, so I decided he was a bit more than just a ‘supporter,’ but I let him have his delusions.
That’s what good friends do.
Hah! Who was I kissing . . . ehr, kidding?
We were so much more than just friends. We were two kindred souls finally reunited after a lifetime apart. Being together was effortless, like coming home. No angst or miscommunications, just understanding and a sense that we were always in sync with each other.
I was also hopelessly, utterly and completely in love with him. Not that I had confessed as much.
But all things change.
I had promised my mom I would make it home in time for the holidays.
She had agreed to a high-profile interview with a prominent journalist, and the network had requested it be a family affair. Senator Hawking at home . . . an intimate look into our private family life.
Despite my nerves, I had agreed to participate, provided I didn’t have to talk too much. Tennyson asked to come with me, and I nearly cried with relief.
Which led us to this moment.
I was sitting on a couch in my childhood home, hair immaculate, makeup perfect, clothes precise and my sweaty hand tucked into Tennyson’s.
He, of course, was Hot Person personified in a casual cable-knit sweater and battered designer jeans. He looked like he had just quit the slopes and was ready for the après-ski wine tasting.
Just . . . Hot People.
My parents were on a couch opposite us, primped and pressed to perfection, as usual.
From there, the room was pandemonium.
The camera crew had erected soft continuous lighting that bathed us in flattering light. Cameras were running from two different angles. The news commentator had taken her seat and was currently having her mic checked by an intern.
Michael was in his element, naturally, moving from person to person with his clipboard, micromanaging everything.
When we had arrived the night before, Michael had spent a solid hour sending Tennyson furtive, narrow-eyed looks.
Tennyson had finally met Michael’s gaze and tapped his temple. “My headspace is doing a lot better, by the way.”
Michael snorted, lip curling. “Gonna tell me all about my future then?”
Tennyson shook his head and said with dead earnestness: “Look, Michael, I’m only telling you this because I know you’re a good friend of the family.” He paused, eyes darting side-to-side before leaning closer. “I saw what you did and I know what’s to come. You might want to prepare.”
Silence.
The blood drained from Michael’s face.
“Uh, I might need to make a phone call or two,” he said before scuttling off.
Michael had been giving us both a wide berth since then. Thank goodness.
“You ready?” Tennyson whispered in my ear.
I grimaced and nodded, not trusting my nervous mouth to speak.
I needed to just smile and keep my tongue silent. No weird rambling. No odd questions.
He smiled and kissed my cheek. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
He pressed another kiss into my temple, nuzzling into my cheek.
“I love you.” His lips brushed my ear.
Wha—?!
I blinked.
I sat back and looked at him.
The sincerity of his words shone in his eyes.
I quickly glanced around. No one was watching us.
I leaned into him. “Now you tell me? When I’m all—” I circled my hand in front of my face indicating my primped and pluckedness. “—made up and can’t kiss you senseless!”
He chuckled, the scoundrel. “You can make it up to me later. I’m okay with that.”
“Tenn!”
“I love you, Olivia Hawking, anima mia. Heart and soul.”
All my bones melted to butter. “I love you, too. You have to know that. But why are we doing this right now?”
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“Nervous?” I was confused. “Why would I be nervous?”
He just smiled and kissed my forehead. “Exactly.”
Oh!
“Are you ready, Olivia?” Michael called from across the room. “I think we’re about to start.”
I gave Michael a quick thumbs up before turning back to Tennyson.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He squeezed my hand in return.
I relaxed into him and turned toward my parents, my nerves calm.
Tennyson made loving a D’Angelo man far too easy.
And I vowed in that moment to spend the rest of my life proving how much I loved him.
EPILOGUE
Five months later
Dante D’Angelo
“You look beautiful.” I tightened my arm around Claire’s waist, pressing my lips to her ear. “The most beautiful woman in the room.”
“You say that now, but I can’t imagine I’m going to be looking so hot in six months.” She snuggled into me, half scooting from her chair to mine.
“Wrong. You somehow manage to look more gorgeous every day.”
“You never miss with the good lines, do you?”
“Not with such inspiration around, cara mia.” I let my eyes skim her body before winking at her.
She shot me a half-eye roll/half smirk over the rim of her water glass, taking a sip before setting it down on the table.
My sister, Chiara—admittedly the second most gorgeous woman in the room in her Regency-inspired lace wedding dress—leaned into her new husband as she stumbled and laughed.
Jack and Chiara’s wedding reception was in full swing. Or, rather, full Regency-era ball mode. Chiara had insisted on giving a strong nod to Jack’s past with their wedding. Hence, no DJ or booming bass for the wedding reception tonight.
Instead, the guests were all learning contra-dancing, the modern derivative of Regency country dances. A woman with a microphone called the steps while a small orchestra played some Bach-era tune.
Jack smiled at his new bride, face glowing with happiness. He was dressed in prime gentleman style with a cutaway tailcoat and waistcoat.
Granted, all us groomsmen were dressed in formal tailcoats and fussy vests. I had at least ditched my cravat about an hour ago.
I scanned the room, seeing simply . . . people. Nothing more.
It had been months since the day atop the tower. Months of living a more normal life. The silvery shadows of lives past—once crystal clear to me—were now just the faintest sense. When I touched something and concentrated, I only got impressions of past events.
It was wonderful and yet completely disorienting. I was still adjusting to the change. I think we all were.
&nbs
p; Granted, having Dad back was worth it a thousand times over. He was dancing with Mom, laughing as he swung her around. He had completely recovered from his ordeal inside the shadow world, and now looked fit as ever, though an older version of the man I knew as a child. Mom was reborn, too. The two of them acted like giddy teenagers half the time.
Claire reached over for another drink of water before letting out a slow breath and leaning back into me.
Obviously, we had happy news we were dying to share with everyone.
We had been wanting to grow our little family for a while now, but having a baby had proved more difficult than we anticipated. After doctor’s visits and medications and procedures, Claire was finally twelve weeks along and solidly pregnant.
We were ecstatic.
We had felt compelled to wait until Claire was out of her first trimester before making the announcement, and with Chiara’s wedding happening, neither of us wanted to steal any of the bride’s thunder. Our good news could wait until after the wedding.
For now, it was enough that just she and I knew.
“Thanks for staying with me.” Claire rubbed my leg. “I really don’t feel well enough to be promenading and hop-skipping.”
“Anytime.”
“I mean, I know it breaks your heart, not being up there showing me your best do-si-do—” She broke off with a yelp.
I may have pinched her ribs.
She returned with a fond kiss.
Chiara and Jack broke away from the dancing, laughing their way to our table.
“You must join us.” Jack clapped me on the back. “I insist.”
“Claire’s not feeling well.” I smiled at my wife.
“Not feeling well?” Chiara snorted. “Claire’s pregnant, Dante. It’s not quite the same thing.”
I froze.
Claire froze.
Chiara laughed.
“Sheesh. You’d think you were the only psychic in the family.” Chiara tapped her temple. “It’s been obvious for a while now that you were going to have a baby before next Christmas. Duh. No one in this family can keep a secret from me. Do you want to know the gender?”
Stunned, Claire and I slowly shook our heads.
“I think we want to wait until the baby is born, Chiara,” I said.