“No, no. Not at all. Come through, make yourselves at home. That’s literally what we want you to do tonight. Imagine you’re as comfortable here as you would be in your own house, only we do all of the cooking, and you don’t even have to do the dishes.”
“Sounds great.” Rocco grinned and exchanged a glance with Sophia.
“I’m Margarite,” the woman introduced herself. She ushered them over to the table. “Now what can I get you to start? Wine?”
Sophia waved a hand. “Oh, I might have a glass later, but I’ll start with a sparkling water, if that’s okay.” She was allowed to drink alcohol on dialysis, but not much, and she always had to make sure the amount of liquid she drank during the day wasn’t more than she was allowed.
“I’ll have the same,” Rocco said, smiling his warm smile at Margarite.
He looked tough on the outside, but his smile and the friendliness of his brown eyes told a whole other story.
Sophia leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I don’t mind if you want to have a real drink.”
He grinned at her. “Nah. I drink too much beer anyway. Not good for the gut.” He patted his rock-hard stomach, and she suddenly wondered what her Richard from childhood now looked like with his shirt off.
“I’m still in shock that you came into my studio today,” he told her. “You know I wasn’t even supposed to be working today.”
“I know. The woman who works there told me the artist I’d booked in with was sick and that I’d be getting you instead. She called you Rocco, and obviously that meant nothing to me. If she’d said ‘Richard’, the thought would have at least occurred to me that it might be you, though I would never have thought it would be really. It’s not as though there aren’t plenty of Richards in London.” Sophia shrugged. “Maybe it was fate. The other artist got sick because the world conspired to throw us together.”
He studied her face. “You believe in all of that?”
She gave a small laugh. “Probably not, but it would be nice if that kind of thing did happen. It would take all the work out of everything, wouldn’t it? We wouldn’t need to question and overanalyse everything that happens because we can just put it all in the hands of fate.”
“Well, maybe fate did bring us back together again,” he said. “And I’m really happy it did. I’ve thought of you all these years, wondering what happened to you and how you were getting on. I even checked social media, hoping your name might come up somewhere, but it never did.”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve never liked any of that stuff. I guess I’ve just kept my head down.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “For ten years?”
“Yeah.”
Social media wasn’t something she’d ever liked. What sorts of things would she have ever been able to post about, except her illness? While others around her were landing their perfect jobs, or their dream men, and were buying houses and having babies, she was just going to and from the hospital. It was less painful to pretend her life wasn’t a shadow of everyone else’s.
Margarite arrived back with their sparkling water and two glasses filled with clinking ice cubes and slivers of lemon. “Starters won’t be long,” she told them.
They waited until she’d left again, and then Rocco leaned back across the table. She’d matched his motions, so they both leaned in toward each other, reducing the space. They weren’t holding hands, but their forearms were close enough to pick up on each other’s body heat.
“We had the most perfect childhood, though, didn’t we?” he said. “I mean, not with how my dad was, but with the two of us. When I look back, all I remember is summers on the beach, rock pooling, and swimming.”
Sophia grinned at the memories. “And do you remember Mr Norton’s orchard, where we used to go scrumping? He used to get so mad when he caught us, but it would just make things seem more dangerous for us, daring each other to run in and steal apples and get out again before he saw us.”
Rocco laughed. “Those apples were so sour as well. I can’t believe we used to eat them.”
She put her hand to her mouth, hiding her smile. “I think they were probably cooking apples. It’s a wonder we didn’t make ourselves sick.” The mention of her being sick was like a damp towel across the flames of her joy. She knew she was going to have to tell him, but she really didn’t want to. She was enjoying him treating her like this, how she was just a normal girl out on a date with a sexy, fun man.
Their starters arrived—a lobster terrain with watercress.
“This looks incredible,” she said as the woman placed the dishes in front of them. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, thank my husband,” Margarite told them. “I’m a terrible cook. But he’ll be out at the end to meet you all.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
The main course was duck confit with steamed green vegetables and dauphinoise potatoes. Sophia normally regulated what she was eating, always careful not to include too much salt, but she pushed her worries to the back of her mind and focused on enjoying the delicious food.
She remembered something, pausing with her fork heading towards her mouth. “Hey, I felt bad the other day for not asking how your dad is doing.”
Rocco shrugged. “He’s much the same. Still drinking, and I doubt that will ever stop. I’ve given up thinking he will ever change. When he was done for drunk driving, I thought that might have given him the shove he needed, but he just carried on as though nothing had happened.”
Sophia winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
His dad had always been like the elephant in the room. Even when they’d been younger, and hadn’t realised what was going on, they’d known he hadn’t been quite right. He’d either be happy and fun, dancing with them and throwing Rocco over his shoulder and spinning him around, or he’d be angry and slurring, forced to use the wall to lean against to stay standing upright. They’d learned to avoid him when he was like that, and they’d go over to Sophia’s house instead where Sophia’s parents were a typical middle-class family, with a father who worked too much and was often away, and a mother who was always lovely, but who allowed herself to be walked over by her husband. Her mum would smile and say she didn’t mind when Sophia asked her if there wasn’t more she wanted from life than staying home every day. Now both her parents were retired, and it seemed to Sophia that her mother’s life was exactly the same as it had been when Sophia had been a young child. Of course, a lot of her mother’s time had ended up revolving around Sophia’s illness. After they’d moved, she’d got sick almost within the first few days. Her parents put it down to the stress of the move, and she was lovesick from leaving Rocco behind, but when she didn’t get better, they’d taken her to see a doctor. She was sleeping all the time, and when she wasn’t sleeping she found herself short of breath and dizzy. Then her legs and ankles had swollen up, and she remembered how embarrassed and ashamed she’d been, looking like the elephant man when she was a self-conscious seventeen-year-old girl.
She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her, and that had included Rocco, and she had been grateful at that point that he was hundreds of miles away.
Chapter Seven
Their dessert arrived—a rich chocolate mousse with a red fruit coulis that had a bitterness to counteract the sweetness of the chocolate. Rocco watched Sophia’s mouth with fascination as she placed the spoon between her lips and gave a moan of satisfaction that went directly to his groin.
He had to ask the question. It had been eating him up all evening. He didn’t want to make things awkward or tense between them, but he had to know.
“Sophia, after you moved with your parents, how come you never contacted me again?” He could feel the way his expression changed, pinching with the emotional pain of all those years ago. She’d been his best friend and his girlfriend, and she’d just upped and vanished.
She glanced down at her almost empty plate, and he immediately
wished he hadn’t said anything. “I did try to call you at first, but your dad kept answering. I guess he never gave you any of the messages?”
This was news to him. He had no idea Sophia had called him.
“No.” He shook his head. That son of a bitch. “He didn’t tell me. But you could have kept trying. Even if weeks, or hell, months had gone past, I still would have wanted to hear from you. Not hearing from you, it was like someone had come along and ripped out a piece of my soul and then just expected me to carry on like normal. It wasn’t pretty, Sophia. I got into some bad shit after you’d gone. I was so angry.”
To his shock, tears filled her sky-blue eyes.
Immediately, he shot his hand across the table, gripping her long, slender fingers in his fist. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shook her head and brushed away a stray tear from her cheek. “No, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I stopped calling you because I got ill and I didn’t want you to know. I figured you were young and free, and the last thing you needed was some sick, long-distance girlfriend dragging you down.”
Her words shocked him, and he sat back in his seat. “Ill? What do you mean you were ill?”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I had some problems with my kidneys and I was in hospital for a while. That’s why I never got back in touch.”
“Jesus, Sophia. You should have told me. I’d have come up to see you.”
She gave him a strange, tight smile. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I knew you well enough to know you’d drop everything and probably hitchhike up to see me.”
“That’s exactly what I would have done,” he growled, suddenly angry that she’d taken that decision away from him.
“But I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want you to give up your whole life for me. You had so much going for you, even though you couldn’t see it. You were young and gorgeous and healthy, and incredibly talented, even though you wouldn’t have admitted it. I wanted you to go on and live your life, and you have, Rocco. You did exactly what I thought you would, and you left that little town and went to university and you’ve created a career and a life for yourself.”
He knew his expression had darkened but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know if he wanted to jump over the table and pull her against him and hold her tight and never let go, or if he wanted to knock the table over and storm out of the room.
“You could have been in it,” he muttered instead. “That should have been my choice. I could have had all those things with you, as well.”
But she shook her head. “No, you couldn’t have. You’d have felt obligated to be with me through all the tests and the operations, and you’d never have had time for university, or fun, or partying.”
He lifted his gaze back to hers. “Is that why you’re not drinking?”
She nodded. “Yes. I can have the occasional glass, but much more wouldn’t be good for me.”
He almost didn’t want to ask. “But you’re all right now?”
She smiled and glanced down at the table, fiddling with her dessert spoon. “Yes, I’m all right. I have to abide by some lifestyle choices to manage things, but I’m okay.”
He reached across the table and took her hand again. He needed to touch her. “Hey, Sophia.” She lifted her eyes to his. “It’s okay. The past is in the past. We’re both ten years older now. We’re not stupid kids anymore. We can let things go and start again.”
“You want to start again?”
He couldn’t read the tone in her voice. “The minute I saw you standing in the studio, it was like I’d been transported back ten years. All of the feelings I had for you were always there. They never went anywhere.”
The tears were back in her eyes. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He squeezed her fingers. “We’ve got a second chance. How many people get that?”
Margarite came to clear the final plates away, then brought them out coffee and homemade mint chocolates. Then she brought out her husband, Philip, who had done all the cooking, and the small room of people cheered, while he did an elaborate bow and then went around and shook everyone’s hands while they complimented the food.
Rocco insisted on paying and leaving a substantial tip for the couple, and, as they stood from the table, he reached out and slipped his fingers through Sophia’s. It felt so good to be holding her hand again, and she made no move to pull away. The rest of the world vanished, and, as all of the other diners collected their belongings and filed their way out, and as Margarite and Philip cleared the tables around them, he could see only Sophia. He reached up with his other hand and twisted a lock of her red hair around his finger, marvelling at how she was real and not a figment of his imagination. And she gazed up at him with those wide, blue eyes, and her perfect lips parted, and he knew he had no choice other than to kiss her, right here in the middle of someone else’s front room.
He slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him, and he ducked his head to hers. Their lips met, and it was a tentative kiss at first, soft and gentle, as though they were both remembering if they knew how to do this right. But then she exhaled a sigh, her breath tasting faintly of coffee and chocolate and mint, and that tiny action went straight to his cock. He held her tight, crushing her up against him. Their mouths opened, and their kisses deepened, tongues edging out to touch and then taste and explore. Her hands crept up his back, her fingers fisting his shirt. He sensed the passion in her, the years they’d lost having gathered momentum.
Someone cleared their throat nearby, and they broke apart.
“Time to go, folks,” Margarite chirped.
They were the last ones left. They grinned at each other, a little embarrassed but also stupidly happy.
“Thanks, Margarite,” Sophia said, her cheeks flushed pink.
“You’re welcome.” She gave her a wink. “Always enjoy seeing a couple so in love.”
Her blush deepened, and she caught Rocco’s eye and then glanced away again. Neither of them corrected the older woman or told her they’d only just been reunited after ten years apart.
Suddenly, those ten years didn’t matter anymore.
They left the pop-up restaurant, still hand in hand, and stopped outside on the street.
“Don’t go home yet,” he told her. “I don’t want this to end.”
“Do you live far from here?”
He shook his head. “No, fifteen minutes, that’s all.”
A small smile touched her lips. “Much closer than travelling all the way back to my parents’ house.”
He understood exactly what she was saying, and his heart lifted. “Yes, it is. Come on.”
He held her hand tightly as they hurried down the street. He hoped none of his flatmates would be home and threw up a silent prayer of thanks that he’d made the effort to tidy up. He wasn’t a perfect man, he knew that, but he would try to be a better one if it meant Sophia would be in his life.
By the time they reached his building, they were both flushed and out of breath. He let her into his flat and listened for any signs they had company. “Good, sounds like everyone is—”
She didn’t even let him finish his sentence. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her elegant, slender body pressed against his, her mouth claiming his for her own. Rocco wasn’t going to complain. He groaned as their tongues met, and he slid his hands down her body, taking in every curve as though she was a sculpture he was trying to memorise.
He went to tug off her top, but she pulled away slightly. “Wait, I have some scarring on my arm, from where I’ve had treatment. They’re not pretty—”
He tugged her back in. “I don’t care about that, Sophia. You’re perfect.”
She shook her head. “Please, don’t think that. I’m not. I’m so far from perfect, it’s not funny.”
“Stop. You’re perfect to me.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t normally cry so
much on a date.”
“Well, you can’t cry while I’m kissing you.”
He leaned in and placed another kiss to her lips.
“No,” she said against his mouth. “I can’t.”
“Or if I kissed you here.” He ducked his head and kissed her neck.
She let out a sigh. “No, not there either.”
Then he reached the bottom of her long-sleeved top and pulled it up over her head, revealing her pale skin. A tubular stretchy bandage covered the lower half of her right arm, to hide her scarring, he assumed.
“Or here.” He touched his lips to her shoulder while he moved his hand up to cup her breast over the top of her bra. Even through the lacy material, he felt her nipple crinkle beneath his touch. He slipped the bra strap down and lowered his mouth to her breast.
“Or here,” he said, right before he kissed her nipple.
She gasped, her hand reaching for the top of his head, pressing him in. He took that as encouragement and opened his mouth, circling the peak with his tongue and then drawing the tightened bud deeper into his mouth. Her tits were small, but the nipples large, and the tip elongated to allow him to suckle it to the roof of his mouth. His cock grew long and hard in his jeans, and he wanted nothing more than to strip them both of their clothes so he could lose himself inside her.
“Oh, God,” she breathed above him, and he used his hand to massage and pinch her other breast, pulling and tweaking the nipple so it was as long and hard as the one in his mouth.
He removed his mouth from her tits and kissed her again, and then scooped her up, so her legs hooked around his hips and he was carrying her. She was so light, so fragile and delicate, though he’d seen the fierce desire in her eyes, and his knowledge of her from their childhood meant he was aware she wasn’t fragile in the slightest.
Leaving the living room, he carried her into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them.
He put her down, her feet hitting the floor, and then he got to work on her jeans, popping open the button and slipping them from her slender hips. She toed off her small ballet-style shoes and threw them to one side. He caught sight of the tattoo he’d done, still wrapped up, and emotions tightened his chest. It felt so right to see something he’d done permanently marked on her skin.
Forged with Ink (London Inked Boys Book 3) Page 4