A shadow passes over her expression. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I knew I could have helped my family, but I chose not to.”
My heart lodges itself between my ribs.
She’s determined to do this.
It should be a good thing. It should make it easier for me to stay focused on what I came here to do. But it sure as hell doesn’t feel great to hear her talk about how ready she is to sacrifice herself. And to Messero of all people. That man will never appreciate the gift he’s been handed. Gemma deserves better than this.
Still, there’s nothing I can do. Not when she’s convinced this is the right thing.
When we reach the Pilates studio, she turns to me, her expression grave. “Ras?”
“Yeah?”
“What happened in the dressing room… It can’t happen again.”
I should have known it was coming, but hearing her say those words still feels like a punch in the gut. We’re walking on different paths. Paths that aren’t meant to intertwine. Whatever’s been brewing between us needs to end, despite how tempting it is. Because no matter how drawn I am to her, she’s not meant for me.
Her eyes burn brightly as she holds my gaze, waiting for me to acknowledge her words.
It’s me who eventually looks away. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
CHAPTER 18
GEMMA
I manage to keep myself at home for the next few days, avoiding any more alone time with Ras.
The wedding planner comes to the house, showing Cleo, Mamma, and me linens, options for the centerpieces, and bringing us cake samples. I ask lots of questions, forcing myself to occupy my mind with something other than the man living a few doors down from me. My diligence earns me praise from Mamma and an exasperated glare from Cleo.
“Can you chill?” she asks after the planner leaves on Friday. “You’re setting way too high of a standard.”
“How’s Ludovico? I haven’t heard anything about him since I got back.”
She smirks. “Me neither. Apparently, he’s on the fence about me after our last meeting.”
“I never asked you what happened.”
“In Mamma’s words, I ate like it was the first time I’ve used cutlery, and when Ludovico commented on it, I told him to leave me alone. He called me uncivilized. I told him he probably has a small dick.”
I rub my temple. “Cleo…”
“What? It must be true, because he got really mad after that. Mamma’s been trying to smooth things over ever since, but I hope she doesn’t. I hate him.”
“Is he going to be at La Trattoria tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
Tonight, we’re having dinner with the Messeros. As far as I know, Ras wasn’t invited, which is for the best, since I’m not confident in my ability to play it cool around him anymore.
The sex dreams won’t stop tormenting me. When I wake up, my body buzzes with need, and my thighs are slick with wetness. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve tried to fix the situation on my own, but I can’t do it. My vibrator’s been broken for months, and I haven’t found a way to get a new one delivered to the house without Mamma knowing. Since Vale ran, she’s been checking all of our packages.
I don’t know how to make myself come with my fingers. God knows, I’ve tried, but it’s never worked for me. I get so close only to never cross the edge.
I had to deal with the insistent throb between my legs for the entirety of breakfast. During which Ras sat directly across from me.
It was torture.
It’s like his touch somehow got encoded in me at a cellular level, and now my skin is programmed to crave it.
I thought a few days with minimal contact would cool things between me and him, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s not working.
I crave his presence. His voice. His smile.
But I know indulging that craving will only make things worse when he inevitably leaves. So I try to cram my feelings into a tiny little box and shove it deep into the recesses of my mind.
“I’m going to go get dressed.” Cleo rises off the couch in the living room and smooths her palms over her thighs. “Mamma made a big deal about not being late. Did she seem more high-strung than usual to you?”
“I’m not sure.” I haven’t been paying close attention to Mamma’s moods recently.
Cleo holds out her palm. “Come on. I’ll sneak a bottle of wine, and we can get tipsy before dinner.”
It’s a bad idea, but for once, I agree to it. I need something to take the edge off so that I can paste on a smile and act like a perfect fiancée.
Cleo and I are lightly buzzed by the time we leave the house for La Trattoria. Dalida plays from the car’s stereo, and Mamma and Papà speak in hushed Italian about things clearly not meant for our ears. I try to make out what they’re saying but get bored after five minutes and pull out my phone.
“Let’s do a crossword,” Cleo suggests.
“You’re terrible at those even when you’re sober.”
“I’m better when I’m a bit drunk. I get more creative.”
A notification pops up on my phone—a text from Ras.
Cleo makes an obnoxious oohing sound. “What’s your bodyguard messaging you about? Is he already worried?”
Shushing her, I checked to make sure our parents are still not paying us attention. “Keep your voice down. And he’s not my bodyguard.”
“Oh yeah? Then how do you explain his behavior around Benjamin?”
I shouldn’t have told her about that. She kept pestering me about how shopping went during the lunch we had right afterward, so when Mamma went to the bathroom, I told her about how Ras wiped the floor with Benjamin.
I kept my mouth shut about the rest of what happened. What Ras and I had done is so inappropriate, it rivals some of Cleo’s worst misdemeanors.
Cleo leans closer. “Open it.”
Turning the screen away from her, I tap on the notification.
Can you send me your schedule for next week?
Disappointment runs through me, but I push it away. What did I expect? For him to tell me something that makes my pulse race?
No, this is for the best.
“What’s that face you’re making? You look like you’re about to lay an egg,” Cleo says, trying to catch another peek at my phone, but I turn it off and slide it back into my purse. “What did he want?”
“My schedule.”
She yawns. “Boring.”
We arrive at our destination, my buzz still buzzing, and we slide out of the car and step onto a frigid sidewalk in Little Italy. Papà hands the keys to the valet and marches toward the entrance, leading the pack.
As soon as we step inside the toasty restaurant, I take a long, deep inhale. It always smells so good in here, like pasta sauce, freshly baked bread, and their house red wine. The smell of my childhood. We used to come here once a week for dinner, and it was always my favorite night. The whole family would be in attendance, aunts and uncles and their broods, and while they ate, the kids would run wild and crawl under the tables. After each dinner, we were allowed to eat as much tiramisu as we wanted. On more than one occasion, that generous offer ended up with Cleo throwing up.