Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 32533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
“She usually meets up with her friends when we come here,” he says. “I’ll ask her to include you, Eden, so you’ll have people your age to hang out with.”
Part of me is undeniably touched that he doesn’t want me to feel left out. But I know what happens when you tell a teenage girl to include another teenage girl in her plans. The last thing our situation needs is one more reason for my future stepsister to hate me.
“Oh, no. That’s okay, really,” I insist, trying to drive the point home.
He deflates a little but doesn’t push the point. “All right. If you’re certain.”
I flash what I hope is a grateful smile. Unlike some parents who can only see the good in their kids, Christian seems aware of his daughter’s bad attitude.
My mom yawns and lays her fork down.
“I think I’ll go to bed early tonight,” she says.
I slide my chair back as she moves to stand.
“Let me walk you—”
“No, no.” She waves her hand. “I’ll be fine. Finish your dinner, sweetie. I’ll meet you back in the room.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. In fact, could you bring back some dessert for me? The panna cotta sounds delicious.”
“Of course,” Christian says kindly. “Have a good night, Petra.”
I keep my eyes glued to her back until she disappears from view.
“She’ll be okay,” Christian says. “I’ve alerted the staff to her situation. They’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks,” I reply, twisting the cloth napkin in my hands. My gaze darts back to his face, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that it’s just the two of us, alone, in a dimly lit restaurant with flowers and candles on the table. One couldn’t be blamed for noticing how date-like the moment feels.
But you’re not on a date, I remind myself.
Christian opens his mouth as if to say something else, but he’s interrupted by our server’s return.
“Have either of you had a chance to look over our dessert menu?” the man asks, as a woman appears, seemingly out of nowhere, to gather our dinner dishes onto a tray.
Before I can answer, Christian says, “We’ll take an order of panna cotta to go. And as for the table, she’ll have a slice of the Caribbean spice cake with whipped cream, and I’ll have the affogato.”
Christian just ordered for me. That’s a thing that happened.
Our server nods and walks away.
“You must think I’m being pushy,” Christian says with a knowing smirk. “But I promise, the spice cake is the best dessert on the menu. If you hate it, we can switch, or you can order something else.”
I smile and shake my head. “I trust you.”
Something dark and intense flashes in his gaze.
“Good,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. I take a long sip from my water glass and command my cheeks to stop burning.
“So,” I say casually, “How long have you and Brittany been coming here?”
“This will be our third visit. Before that, it was Naples, Ibiza, Monaco…”
“Wow. Before this trip, the farthest I’d traveled from home was Disney World with my parents. Brittany’s lucky to have you.”
He laughs grimly. “I doubt Brittany would agree. She seems to be at an age where I can do nothing right. Though, if I’m honest, that phase started a long time ago.”
If the frown he’s aiming at the tablecloth is any indication, I can tell his strained relationship with Brittany must weigh on him.
“I can’t imagine feeling that way,” I say quietly.
“Are you saying you didn’t resent your dad’s presence when you were seventeen?”
My feelings about my own father are…complicated. Before I learned the truth about his criminal ties, he was my favorite person in the world. But all of that changed a year and a half ago when a group of armed thugs stormed into our house and began trashing the place because my dad’s boss wanted to remind him of his spot in the food chain.
Since I was little, my dad had fed me the lie that when he drove off to work, he was heading to a boring corporate job. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. He'd been lying to me my whole life. Everything my parents had given me—birthday presents, Christmas gifts, my laptop and phone, even the bed I slept in—had been bought with blood money.
Compared to my own father, Brittany’s dad seems like a saint.
“I’ll be more specific,” I say. “I can’t imagine feeling that way about you.”
His gaze meets mine, and I forget how to breathe.
Our server returns with a box and two plates. The russet-colored spice cake with whipped cream looks just as delicious as Christian promised it would be. He carves out a small chunk of espresso-doused ice cream from his own dish and brings the spoon to his lips.
“Bon appétit,” he says.
The look of pleasure on his face as his lips close around the spoon has me feeling warm all over. I turn my attention to my own dessert, spearing a bite of spice cake. The warmth from the cinnamon and clove pairs wonderfully with the sweetness of the whipped cream.