Page 72 of Ruthless Daddy
He pretended to be mortally offended, hand to his chest. “If you say that again, I’ll have to walk out.”
I laughed, for real this time. Loud enough that people at the next table looked over. I didn’t care. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like this. Maybe never.
He watched my face, the smile lingering. Then he reached across the table and brushed his thumb over the corner of my mouth, slow, then held it up: a flake of breadcrumb.
“You missed,” he said.
I felt my body react, thighs tight under the table, the echo of his touch burning across my skin. I wanted him. I wanted to be fucked, fed, held, all at once. It was almost overwhelming.
I said, “Pietro,” in a low voice.
He let his hand drop, slow. “Not yet. Eat your lunch.”
I blinked, then looked at the food, the wine, the mess of crumbs on my plate. I took another bite, just to prove I could. He watched, satisfied.
The next course came—stuffed peppers, oily and sweet, with breaded chicken and lemon. I didn’t even try to be polite. I tore into them, sucking the juice off my fingers. He followed, not as messy, but just as hungry.
We ate in silence for a while, trading glances and smiles, letting the food fill the space between us. The room was warm and crowded; for once, I didn’t care about being invisible. I wanted to be seen. I wanted him to see me.
We finished the wine. The waitress brought coffee, then a tiny dish of gelato with two spoons.
I said, “Are you trying to seduce me?”
He leaned in. “Is it working?”
I scooped a bit of gelato, tasted it. “Maybe.”
He watched me, his eyes dark and intent. I thought about the confession in the greenhouse, about the promise he’d made to never lie to someone he loved.
I wanted to believe it.
He said, “You look happy.”
I was. It terrified me.
I said, “Thank you for today.”
He shook his head. “We’re not finished.”
I stared at him. He grinned.
“Next,” he said, “books.”
I finished my coffee, the taste bitter but good, and let him lead me back into the cold.
Thebookstorewasablock away from the restaurant. We ducked inside and the bell above the door gave a sad little ding. The shop was dim, lit by a line of bulbs strung across the ceiling and a few mismatched lamps at the ends of the aisles. The air smelled like paper and dust, and also like the waxy apples the owner set out on a plate near the register.
There was a cat—grey, old, enormous—sleeping on top of the counter. Its tail thumped once when we walked in, then stopped. The woman behind the counter didn’t look up from her crossword, just nodded in our direction.
I drifted toward the fiction shelves, trailing a finger over the spines, reading titles at random. Pietro went straight for the history, head down, hand skimming the shelf like he was checking for a secret door. We separated without speaking.
I liked this. I liked being left alone but knowing he was still in the room, that every few minutes I’d feel his eyes check for me. I watched him through the gap between two shelves: the way he stood, one hand tucked in his pocket, reading the back of abook with complete focus. He looked serious, the lines between his eyebrows deepening. Every so often he’d set a book aside in a small stack, then move on.
I found a battered hardcover of The Master and Margarita on the third shelf, the cover creased, the corners gone soft. I plucked it out and carried it around, cradling it like it was alive. It felt right, somehow—magic, devils, truth hidden inside a joke.
Pietro found me at the end of the aisle. “Did you find something?”
I held up the book. “Homework,” I said.
