by Sam Mariano
“I don’t think you’re a waste of my time or energy,” I tell her.
“I’m not,” she tells me. “Pursuing me is. Am I attracted to you? Sure. You’ve got those piercing gray eyes, the general hot-guy appeal. You’re even dangerous, for girls who are into that. I’m not. I don’t want dangerous. I don’t want hot. I want someone who can get me out of this life, not someone who’s as deep in it as I am.”
“Then why don’t you do us both a favor. Get me out of your system. Not tonight, since you already said no tonight, but meet me tomorrow. We’ll fuck until we’re good and satisfied, then we can both move on with our respective lives.”
Laughing a little, she takes another big gulp from her martini. “Men suck.”
“We don’t suck. We eat,” I tell her, leaning in to say it near her ear.
Her beautiful face flushes just slightly. “I don’t need to fuck you, Salvatore. I already know where that leads.”
“Where does it lead?” I ask her.
“Heartache,” she says, meeting my gaze. “At best. At worst, you wreck me.” Looking away from me and at her martini, she swiftly finishes it. “I don’t need that.”
I lost my smile about three words into that statement. I’ve never had a woman look me in the eye and say something so brutally honest before, but it gets me right in the gut.
What kind of asshole would want to wreck her?
I can also tell she really is about to bail on me.
“Let me buy you one more drink.”
But she shakes her head. “I agreed to one drink. I had one drink.”
“Francesca.” I reach across the bar, grabbing her hand. “Come on. You’ve barely told me anything about yourself.”
“I’ve told you all that’s relevant,” she responds, pulling her hand from mine and meeting my gaze.
“I want to know more,” I tell her, and I mean it.
“Well, you can’t always get what you want.” I’m surprised when she opens her own purse to pull out some money.
“You don’t have to pay,” I say, honestly confused.
She puts a twenty down and pushes it toward the bartender. “My treat,” she tells me. “No more cupcakes. It was nice meeting you, Salvatore.”
“Goddammit, Francesca.”
She doesn’t even pause, she just walks away from me like it’s the easiest thing she’s done in her life.
I sigh, hopping off the bar stool and chasing after her. “We brought my car.”
“I have a ride,” she tells me, not even looking back.
“Let me take you back to your car, at least.” I shoulder through people, trying to catch up to her. This woman is fucking infuriating, and I just want her to stop running so I can catch her.
I catch up, grabbing her arm and pulling her around to look at me. “Come on.”
She shakes her head, before I can say another word. “One sexless drink. That’s all I agreed to. I held up my end of the bargain.”
“I’ll come back to the bakery tomorrow.”
“Well, it’s closed tomorrow, so have fun with that.”
“Have dinner with me,” I request.
“How many times do I have to tell you ‘no’?” she asks, exasperated.
“I think you’ve reached your quota; switch over to ‘yes’ now.”
“Why?” she demands again, staring at me. “You’re Mr. Confident, right? Surely you can get a date easier than this.”
“Of course I can.” I’m not being cocky, just realistic, but who knows how she’ll take it. She seems inclined to think the worst of me. I guess I can’t really blame her. “But I want a date with you.”
“I think you only want what you can’t have,” she tells me, turning and heading out the exit door.
“Well, let me have you and we’ll see,” I shoot back, following her outside.
“I’ll pass, but thank you for your kind offer,” she tosses back over her shoulder. Then, stopping so abruptly I nearly crash into her, she turns around and flashes me a smile. “This was fun. It was nice meeting you. I hope you and my brother continue to not kill each other over stupid money that neither of you needs. Good night, Salvatore.”
I expect to have more time, but it turns out she’s already called for a ride, I guess, because a car pulls up and she wastes no time opening the door and hopping in. I have to see who’s driving, so I peer in. Dark-haired kid, barely out of high school. Definitely a Morelli by the look of him. She probably shouldn’t have called a Morelli to pick her up, especially since he looked right at me, but there’s not much I can do about that now.
I can’t believe I keep standing there, watching her car until it disappears from sight, but I do.
And as soon as it’s gone, I make the decision to go to the bakery again, just like I told her I would.
Chapter Three
“On a scale from one to ten, how crazy would it be to fuck Mateo Morelli’s little sister?”
My buddy, Mark, is sprawled on the opposite end of the sectional, watching reruns of Entourage on my big-screen television. I guess I am, too, but I’m not paying attention to the show. I’m thinking about getting Francesca Morelli a cell phone, and the kind of fun we can have with pictures and text messages. Maybe I can’t go see her at the bakery, but that doesn’t mean I can’t flirt with her by phone while I’m going about my day.
Mark laughs at me, then his smile dims when he sees I don’t join in.
“Oh, that was a serious question?”
I nod, popping a chocolate covered raisin into my mouth and glancing over at him. “Yep.”
“On a one to ten scale? A thirteen.”
“She’s really pretty, did I mention that?”
“Okay, scratch that—fourteen.”
I roll my eyes at him and look back at the TV screen. “Your answer sucks.”
“No, that idea sucks,” he shoots back. “If you’re horny, call one of the many women you can fuck without that kind of drama.”
“They’re all boring.”
“They are not all boring,” he states.
“That’s the problem. They’re not, but I’m bored. Just thinking about making those calls and spending those evenings with these other girls… it makes me want to give up women altogether.”
“Well, I would advise that before pursuing the Morelli girl.”
“But she’s gorgeous and funny and you haven’t seen her lips. You’d understand if you saw her lips.”
“I have seen her lips,” he reminds me. “And they are nice, yes, but no lips are that nice. Your dad would have a motherfucking apoplexy.”
“I think I’m gonna do it,” I say, nodding.
Shaking his head and looking off at nothing, Mark asks, “Why am I even here?”
“Do you know how to bake?”
Mark looks at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind. Maybe I have, but I’ve been thinking about things and there’s an idea I keep coming back to.
“Francesca said she needs a baker. And Adrian said some shady guys were lingering around the bakery, but I don’t think he put a guard on her unless it’s the kid I saw tonight, and I don’t think he’s good enough. I mean, unless he was in the restaurant the whole time and I didn’t notice, but I don’t see that being the case.”
“Was there a question in there somewhere?” Mark asks.
“What if you worked at the bakery and kept an eye on her for me?”
Mark’s jaw legitimately falls open and he pushes up so his feet touch the floor. “What is wrong with you, Sal?”
I offer a casual shrug. “I don’t want sketchy assholes sniffing around her.”
“What exactly did those lips do to you tonight?” he asks.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Trust me, not a damn thing.”
“They better have worked actual fucking magic to get this kind of rise out of you.”
“She won’t even agree to a second date with me,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “She’s playing hard-to-get like it’s an Olympic spo
rt.”
“Your expectations of women—nay, life, but in this instance, women—are way out of line with the rest of the world,” he tells me. “I’ve had lots of women not want to go on second dates with me. You know what normal men do?”
“No, and I don’t care,” I say, before he can tell me. “Do you know how to bake?”
As if he deeply regrets what he’s about to say, Mark admits, “I do.”
I grin. “Perfect.”
“This is not a good idea, Sal. Suppose Morelli figures it out?”
I recline with my hands folded behind my head, turning my attention back to the television. “One step at a time, Mark. One step at a time.”
---
I go home for dinner Sunday night. My ma likes to get as many of us together as she can, but about half the time my dad doesn’t show up. After years and years and years with the man, she accepts and ignores that now, carrying on family dinner without him.
This Sunday he shows up.
And I feel like he’s keeping an eye on me.
Which is unsettling. I try to think of what I might’ve done lately to stir his ire, but I can’t come up with anything he should know about.
It crosses my mind someone might’ve seen me out with Francesca. Going places with her in public is really not a great idea, but it’s not like I can be a pain in the ass and expect her to show up. I can’t even get her to agree to dinner.
Yet. I will. Maybe I should reserve a private room for that so we have more privacy. Too many people between our two crews, too many eyes in this city.
I wish I could get her to come to my house. There’s no way she will—I can’t even blame her. It’s not bad enough she knows who I am and doesn’t fully trust that I’m not pulling some shit on her, but she probably knows as well as I do that the odds of her winding up in my bed drastically increase if we’re that close to it.
Maybe we could leave the city. I spend most of my time inside, but if I could convince her to come out with me for a few hours, we could afford a little drive time.
I get out my phone to look up some potential places I could take her. The last of dessert has been served, so I don’t think Ma will lose her shit, but then she does.
“Antonio Salvatore Castellanos, I know you are not on your phone at the dinner table.”
Sighing, I slide the phone back into my pocket and sit up a little straighter.
My younger sister smirks at me. “Idiot,” she whispers.
“Madeline, don’t call your brother names.”
I burst into laughter, hearing my mom lecturing us like we’re kids again at the dinner table. Elbowing Maddie, I add, “And no slouching—sit up like a lady.”
“Shhh,” she stage whispers. “You’re gonna get me grounded.”
“Stop making fun of your mother,” Dad says, his gray eyes sliding a look of censure in our direction as if we are, in fact, children.
Ma shakes her head, like she just doesn’t know how we turned out to be such hoodlums.
I shake my head in mock disappointment before telling Maddie, “We’re definitely getting coal in our stocking this year.”
She instantly loses her smile, and I remember her new war on Christmas. It’s been half a year, so you’d think she’d be over it already, but her dumbass ex-boyfriend dumped her during Christmas. When she was expecting a ring.
It was a jolly holiday season.
Leaning in, I tell her, “I forgot to tell you I saw Isaac the other day.”
Her face scrunches up. “Ew. Why would I care?”
“He looked really ugly.” She cracks a smile. “Grew this really unfortunate neck beard. Looks like he should be on Duck Dynasty, if the Duck Dynasty guys were uglier.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile lingers as she swirls her wine in her glass, staring at it instead of looking up at me. “Was he alone?”
“Of course he was alone. No one wants to be seen with some ugly neck-beard-having loser. You dodged a bullet there, trust me.”
“He needs a bullet right in his face,” she mutters.
“It could be arranged,” I assure her. “That offer stands.”
That makes her smile again, and she glances over at me. “You know I’m kidding.”
I wink. “You know I’m not.”
---
I’m glad when Monday rolls around.
Francesca’s bound to be back at the bakery, so Mark and I head to the bakery. I don’t want to go in the front door and risk the cameras again, so I give him his instructions and head around to wait by the back door.
It takes about two minutes for Francesca to come out back, wide-eyed and aggravated. “What is wrong with you?”
“You didn’t miss me?”
“You can’t keep coming here,” she says, glaring back at Mark, who has followed her out. From the look on his face, like he’s a kid about to watch fireworks on the Fourth of July, he clearly wants to watch and see what the hell about this girl has gotten inside my brain like a goddamn tapeworm.
I’m not sure either, but as long as it’s fun, who cares?
And it is fun. As if Mark isn’t even there, I let my gaze slowly move down her body and back up again. Both times I’ve seen her now, it’s no-nonsense jeans and T-shirts under her apron. I mean, she looks great, but I wanna see her dolled up.
“I want to take you out.”
Grabbing me by the shoulders, she pushes me back against the brick wall. I’m a little floored by her dominance, but I’m not going to argue.
Then she just lectures me instead of kissing me. I guess I should’ve seen that coming.
“You cannot come back to this bakery, Salvatore. I am not joking. You have to stop.”
“I already told you I’m going to keep coming back.”
Grasping my face between her hands, she looks at me like she’s about to actually growl. “You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
Letting go of my face, she shoves my shoulder, even though I’m already backed up against the wall. “You’re going to get in trouble. Mateo is going to find out. Adrian is going to find out. You are going to get me in trouble. They always find out.”
“Then stop making me come here,” I tell her. Though, actually, that doesn’t sound good, either. I like coming here. It’s fun waiting outside this back door for her to emerge.
“What’s with the lax security on this place?” Mark asks, shielding his eyes from the sun and looking around, noting like I did that for a Morelli holding, this place is way under-protected.
“Mateo doesn’t come here,” she states—and then immediately looks like she regrets her words. “Don’t ask me questions like that,” she says, shoving my shoulder again.
Damn, this girl is turning me on. “Shove me one more time, honey, I’m putting you over my shoulder and hauling you home with me.”
“You’re driving me crazy,” she informs me, her face flushed.
“I’d like to,” I reply. “I’d really like to.”
“You are.”
“Doesn’t someone else work at this place? Have someone else work for you tomorrow. I want to take you somewhere.”
“I’m understaffed as it is,” she says, shaking her head. “Even if I wanted to, which I can’t, it’s impossible.”
“You said can’t.”
Mark backs me up. “You did. I heard it.”
“What?” she asks, frowning.
I grin. “You didn’t say you don’t want to go with me, you said you can’t want to go with me.”
Bringing her palm to rest on her forehead, she says, “I’m going back inside.”
“No, wait.” I catch her wrist, hauling her back nearer to me. “I have a solution to your staffing problems.”
Her eyebrows rise skeptically. “You want to sponsor a job fair?”
Pointing to Mark, I tell her, “He can bake.”
Francesca glances back at Mark, who waves, then back at me w
ith a frown. “That doesn’t help me.”
“It does,” I tell her. “Because you need a baker—and, in my opinion, a bodyguard—and it just so happens… Mark here is pretty good at guarding bodies.”
“And making cupcakes,” Mark adds.
It takes a minute, then she begins to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And then she doubles over, like she’s in physical pain from all the laughter.
I wanna pretend to be offended, but her laugh is so goddamn adorable I can’t pull it off.
Finally she gets it together. Her brown eyes are sparkling with mirth, and she crosses her arms, shaking her head at me. “I’m going to assume that was a joke. If it wasn’t, you are insane, and the answer is still no.”
“They don’t know Mark,” I tell her.
“Do you know how paranoid my brother is?” she demands, the mirth in her eyes slowly draining at the mention of Mateo. “Seriously. This is flattering, and you’re… appealing on certain levels—”
“Which levels am I failing to appeal to you on?”
She widens her eyes pointedly, “But because you seem less awful than I expected, I don’t want my paranoid brother to see you sniffing around and think you’re becoming a problem. And neither do you.”
“But I just want cupcakes,” I tell her.
Francesca rolls her eyes. “You do not just want cupcakes.”
“I’m at peace with your brother. I don’t want his shit, he doesn’t want mine. You, on the other hand…”
“I’m not your type,” she tells me.
“How do you know what my type is? Have you been stalking me?”
“I don’t have to—you’re stalking me.”
“Is it cute, or creepy? I think it’s pretty cute.”
“It’s insane,” she tells me. “And it has to stop.”
“Mark, the phone.” I hold my hand out, not looking away from her.
“Got it, boss,” he says, drawing a cell phone out of his pocket and handing it to me.
Now I hold it out to Francesca. “Use this one. Your brother doesn’t go through your bag when you get home from work, does he?”