by Olivia Fox
The entire town knew mom started in on vodka for breakfast, drunk by noon since dad died. The parish of St. Agnes came through for Maggie and me with poor-people scholarships. I made our lunches every night, and when we ran out of groceries, creativity did the trick. Pickle sandwiches, or if our neighbors gave us free eggs, I made egg salad without the mayo. By the time we got to highschool, Maggie’s boyfriend-of-the-week bought her lunch every day.
After saving me from Whitehead, Tony started showing up with brown paper bags full of the most delicious concoctions I’d ever encountered, all of them with exotic names: prociutto, Finocchiona, Calabrese — the names alone were delicious.
He insisted it was a crucial time in my life and I shouldn’t be malnourished. I wondered a) where the hell he got these sandwiches b) if he noticed that every time he got all protective and fatherly, I just stared at him, wishing he’d put his hands on me. It was inappropriate for a fifteen-year-old to lust after someone nearly twice her age.
I did it anyway.
I’d die if he learned I was in the same damned situation, present day. Skipping meals, surviving on Ramen, canned tuna, and scrambled eggs.
He’d flip.
“Daphne, hello, Daphne?” He waved his huge hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I asked, when are you not busy?”
I shoved my hair out of my face
God, I hated being broke. I pulled out my phone and checked my bank balance for the third time that day.
Nope.
No deposit from a magical genie had landed in my account.
Yup, paid my student loan and hokus pokus I was brokus, $17.56 available funds and that had to do me for groceries til the end of the week. I shouldn’t have purchased that limited edition boxed set, but I justified the purchase by telling myself mental entertainment was as important as good nutrition.
If I ate a meal with Tony, I’d pay my own way.
After all, I understood how he operated, how every member of the Drago family did. He’d do me a favor and next thing I knew, I’d owe him one. In fact, I still had an outstanding debt for his care and feeding of me when I was in highschool.
Is that why he wanted to go out? To collect on his debt? The idea made a surge of lust burn in my brain and blotted out all reason.
“I uh, I’m pretty tied up this week.” Total lie. I’d be home in bed with my Kindle by seven p.m. Same as every night. But that was none of his business.
I wasn’t the kind of flashy female who graced his arm in the social section, as reported by the Lost Coast Outpost. They were a long-legged, hot-blooded breed of woman. Thoroughbreds. Not shy, awkward, book worms who didn’t understand how to be a real grown ups and got grumpy when they finished a favorite series. If I were an equine, I’d be more of a Shetland Pony than a Thoroughbred.
The women Tony stepped out with had their sexy siren game on so hard, they got men to pay-per-view.
“It’s been forever since I’ve seen you. You can’t find an earlier opening on your social calendar for me?” He leaned forward, and I inhaled him, almost disappointed to find that he had the same delicious, masculine scent that made me poise on the ledge between ravenous and swoony.
Lucia strode to the front of the store to help some customers waiting at the front counter.
So my guardian angel wanted to catch up and reminisce about the old days. I’d give him that. Once. Just as soon as I had a little more do re mi in my account.
“I’d love to, Tony. It’s just that this week is packed. How about next week?”
He smiled with displeasure, but said, “Good things are worth the wait. I’m just not a very patient man.” His body radiated a raw, primal strength, “I’ve waited ten years already. I guess a few more days won’t hurt.”
If only I could be more like Maggie and think of something clever to say when an attractive male flirted with me.
“Anyway,” he continued, “At least let me buy you a fancy coffee and a grilled panini.” He moved towards the glass case where we stored pre-made baguette, ciabatta, or focaccia sandwiches that we grilled with love in the Italian style.
I had to admit, his back end was a sight to behold. It would have the nuns at St. Agnes questioning their spiritual decisions around celibacy.
Another reason to keep my distance from Antonio Drago, despite all the wrongs associated with admiring his mobster man flesh, my hormones were yelling at me to go for it.
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