Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Your parents are definitely … interesting.”
“They’re a handful sometimes, but it’s a wholesome handful, so it’s all right.”
“You’re lucky to have them around,” he says. “I never really had the quintessential grandparent experience. Mine were all gone by the time I was barely out of diapers. I’m glad Lucia has them.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “They’re pretty great. Still crazy in love after forty years of marriage. You know, they almost didn’t happen. She was engaged to another guy when they met. But my dad was relentless.”
“Imagine that.”
“He worked at my grandfather’s electronics store on the weekends, sweet-talked him into letting him do a few things around the house. Mowing and cleaning the gutters. But he just wanted to see my mom. Anyway, long story short, she left her fiancé and married my dad. Thank goodness for cold feet.”
“And persistent Italians,” he adds.
“She almost didn’t though. She was scared she was going to choose the wrong guy.”
“My dad once told me any time you make a decision from a place of fear, ninety-nine percent of the time it’s the wrong one,” he says.
“Ooh. That’s a good little nugget. I’ll remember that. Got any other ones?”
He pauses the documentary. “Yeah. Actually. There’s a rule in tennis, that if you hold the racket too tight, you lose control. I think relationships are that way too, so I’ve always made a point to hold people closely, but not too tight.”
“Damnnnn. I had no idea you went this deep.” I rest my elbow on the back of the couch, angle my body toward him, and rest my cheek against my hand. “You should write a book or something.”
“I’m working on one actually,” he says. “Or I should say a ghostwriter is. This publisher wants me to do an autobiography … never mind that I haven’t even lived half of my life yet …”
“Yeah, but you’ve done more living in thirty-seven years than most people do in eighty,” I say. “I bet you have all kinds of good stories. And think of all the aspiring tennis players who want to be you when they grow up.”
A wave of exhaustion washes over me, sinking into my marrow. I could stare at this beautiful creature all night, if only my eyes would let me.
Thank goodness for pictures.
In an unexpected yet endearing moment earlier tonight, Fabian told me to snap a few pictures of him and Lucia with my phone. And he made me swear up, down, sideways, and to Heaven and back not to share them with anyone. He said they were only for her and only so she had something to remember him by, come what may. I wasted no time grabbing my phone, and I snapped no less than fifteen images—images I’ll treasure and keep safe the rest of my days. He also told me not to send them off to get printed, that he’d buy me a photo printer to use. I teased him, telling him he was being paranoid, but he told me it wasn’t about him … it was about Lucia.
Her privacy, her safety, her future.
“I’m going to head to bed,” I say, yawning.
“Here.” Fabian pulls me into him, situating me into the cozy bend of his shoulder and readjusting the blanket over our laps. “I’ll carry you to bed when this is over.”
He presses play on the remote and settles back, arms wrapped around me tight.
With my ear pressed against his warm chest, I fall asleep to the steady drum of his heartbeat.
A girl could get used to this.
Even if she shouldn’t.
Chapter 22
Fabian
* * *
“What are you thinking about?” I ask Rossi after dinner Friday night. The warm flicker of candlelight makes her eyes shimmer in the dark.
I haven’t taken my eyes off of her since the moment she emerged from her room earlier tonight. She teetered, unsteady, in sky high black stilettos as she tugged at a little black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places and left nothing to the imagination. Speechless, I bit my fist as I visually devoured her from head to toe, and she muttered something about not having worn any of this since before the pregnancy.
I immediately silenced that fucking nonsense with a punishing kiss and a squeeze of her perfect, peach-shaped ass.
“If I tell you I’m thinking about the baby, you’re going to lecture me …” she says.
“Damn right I will.”
She rolls her eyes. “This is the first night I’ve spent away from her since she was born.”
The city skyline twinkles outside our private dining room.
“And I promise, I’ll make it worth every second.” I toss my napkin over my plate, retrieve my wallet, and place a few large bills to cover the tab since our server went MIA.
Dabbing her mouth, she folds her napkin, places it aside, and rises from her chair, her breasts all but spilling out of her skintight ensemble. My cock strains against the inside of my slacks.