Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
After our conversation about not wanting to be his secret, Con texted me an address.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A surprise. Meet me there at six tomorrow.”
I tilted my head curiously, but he only smiled enigmatically. “Wear heels.”
I wore the highest pair I owned, the pair I didn’t dare wear out to a bar or club because I didn’t know how long I’d be able to walk in them. They made my legs look as long and slim as a deer’s, giving me the confidence to wear the flirty dress with the short hemline I’d bought recently. I’d been in the city for months, but when I saw myself in the mirror, for the first time I thought I looked like I belonged.
And when I got to the address he’d sent me, I felt like I was walking into another girl’s life. It was a hole in the wall from the outside, but the inside reminded me of the restaurants Halley had taken me to when we were in Italy. Small places that you found off winding, cobblestone alleys behind unmarked doors with sheets of fresh pasta hanging in the windows.
Con was standing in the small waiting area with a reckless grin on his face. I felt myself light up at the sight of him, but I couldn’t stop myself from scanning the dining room in search of a familiar face. There were none to be seen. Though the room wasn’t big, the space was curated for intimacy. Small tables with chairs set close together sat apart from each other. The room was dim and mostly lit by ancient-looking brass chandeliers and long white tapers. It was filled with couples who only had eyes for each other.
It was safe.
We were seated at a round table in the corner covered in a white tablecloth. The taper already had fat waxy rolls down the side, pooling on the brass holder. Con’s eyes glowed with satisfaction as he stared at me over it. “This is Giardo’s. It’s my favorite place in the city. I’ve wanted to bring you here for a while.”
“I’m glad you did.” A smile spread across my face as I looked into his. I was barely aware of what we were saying aloud to each other. There was something humming beneath the words. I hadn’t even had a sip of the deep, purplish-red claret decanting at the edge of the table, but I felt intoxicated by the place, and more immediately, by the man.
The waiter who brought a basket of fresh, hot bread with crispy edges and a soft, sunken center knew Con by name and asked if he wanted his usual. Then he winked at me and said, “Finally, he brings a lady.”
I laughed. “That’s smooth.”
He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “What is?”
“The line–it is a line, isn’t it?” I looked at Con. “I’m not–”
His face was unreadable, impenetrable. “You are.”
After the server walked away, I stared at him. “This is your favorite place in the city, and you’ve never brought anyone here before?”
He moved his large shoulders. “I never wanted to before.”
The glow that had kindled in me when I first walked in grew brighter, filled me to the brim with warm, golden light. The words I love you threatened to burble up and spill over my lips. I didn’t want to swallow them back. It didn’t feel natural to repress what was becoming more and more true every day. But I couldn’t risk it. Saying I love you would draw a line in the sand that neither of us would know whether we should cross or not.
Instead, I tried to keep it light. I rubbed the pointed toe of my heel against the inside of his leg and said teasingly, “I guess you could say I’m your first.”
As I knew they would, his eyes darkened, and his body leaned toward mine instinctively. Dinner at Giardo’s was like delicious, exquisitely and painfully drawn-out foreplay. It was a place to linger. We dipped the bread in rich, peppery olive oil and drank wine for the first hour, not putting in our orders until it was nearly 8:30. When the entrees arrived, we ate languidly, sharing bites of his carbonara and my fettuccine until the plates were empty. I didn’t think I could possibly eat dessert, but Con insisted on ordering the tiramisu. By the time we finished the last bite and drank our after-dinner digestive, a colorless liqueur that tasted like black licorice–it was nearly eleven.
Emboldened by getting away with having dinner together in public, Con and I walked hand in hand to his car. We left mine parked in the lot and he drove us back to his place without even having to discuss it. There was no need to go back to mine anymore. Dinner had changed us. Maybe it would only be for the night, but I had a feeling this deepness, this connection, would last. We didn’t even wait until the elevator got us up to his penthouse before we were on each other. Kissing, touching, pulling each other deeper and closer than we’d ever been. If the ride had been longer, who knew what we would have done in the ornate cubicle. I might have thrown caution to the wind and told him I loved him. For some reason, that seemed possible now. Less like a death sentence anyway.