Page 35 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
KARINA
Meeting with the wedding planner. I have my phone.
Both of those things are a lie. Not only am I not meeting the wedding planner, but I “accidentally” left my phone on my bed so I can’t be contacted—or tracked.
I’ve been second-guessing the note ever since I wrote it and set it on the foyer table. But if I waste too much more time, I’m going to be late. My Uber just pulled up, and honestly, there couldn’t be a better day for this. No one is home but me, so there’s no one to stop me from leaving. Will there be consequences for leaving without my uncle’s permission once he checks the cameras?
Probably, but I might get a less severe tongue lashing if he thinks I’m with the wedding planner. This is the second time I’ve run off with Marco and used some lame excuse to cover it up. Most of the wedding planning has been done already, though, so I’ll be surprised if I don’t get a million questions about this. Nausea burns the base of my throat as I get into the Uber. Maybe this is a bad idea.
No, it is a bad idea. 1000%. But it’s Marco, and I don’t want to say no. My wedding is fast approaching, and these stolen moments are all that I have left.
As I stare out the window of the car, I replay Marco’s most recent race in my mind. He blew Pietro out of the water, but it wasn’t easy—or clean. As suspenseful and exhilarating as it was to watch my lover and my fiancé do battle on the racetrack, I was also on the edge of my seat with fear that their cars would end up crashing or bursting into flames.
Not only that, but my barely contained excitement over Marco’s win quickly died when everyone in my box started cussing and arguing about it. More than a few words were said about Marco, and the entire Bellanti family as well. It was hard to block them out and even more difficult not to defend him. Meanwhile, Pietro didn’t say a word to me after the race. He didn’t even look at me before disappearing, and then my cousin took me home.
The race only makes the position that Marco and I are in even worse, thanks to my family’s hatred for the Bellantis. Luckily, no one suspects a thing. But I can only imagine what things will be like once Pietro and I are married, and Marco continues to antagonize Pietro. Seeing Marco at every race is going to kill me.
The Uber driver drops me off at the address where Marco is waiting for me, leaning against a little black sports car. The top is down, the rich brown leather in the two-seater gleaming in the sun. As soon as my driver is gone, Marco takes me into his arms and swings me around before opening the passenger door for me. There’s a bit of wind today, and I’m glad I did my hair in a simple French braid so I can enjoy riding around in the convertible.
Marco gets behind the wheel and pulls into traffic, then takes my hand and threads our fingers together. He nods to a glittery bag by my feet. Inside is a twenty-five-year-old vintage red and two wineglasses.
“Wow, what are we celebrating?” I ask.
“Anytime I’m with you is worth celebrating, Karina.”
Suave. So very smooth, and I love it. “I thought perhaps we were celebrating your victory yesterday.”
One dark brow arches. “About that. How, uh, did things go after the race?”
The hesitant tone in his voice worries me. I’m not quite sure what he’s asking. “Aside from everyone cursing your name, you mean?”
His lips draw into a line. “Yeah. Did Pietro—”
“He left immediately after the race without a word to me. I haven’t seen him since.”
Marco nods, visibly relieved, and I wonder what he’s worrying about. Yes, my fiancé is an ass, but I’ve been able to tolerate him thus far. After the wedding will be a different story.
“Today, we celebrate our time together. I have a few things up my sleeve, so I hope you’re ready,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
“Oh, I am more than ready. But I have to keep an eye on the time. I sort of said I was out with the wedding planner, and typically that only takes a couple of hours at most.”
His smile fades a little. “Understood.”
We hold hands and enjoy the wind in our hair as he drives up the coast to a small town just off the water. Everything is situated feet from the coastline, and though the town is supported by a rocky hillside, I’m amazed the entire thing doesn’t get washed into the Pacific during the stormy season. The buildings are colorful and cheerful here, in sun-faded pastel colors, sort of how I always imagine the Caribbean.
“This place is amazing!” I tell him as we park at a restaurant overlooking the beach.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says.
We get out of the car and Marco slips his arm around my waist, guiding me to a table on the deck. The salty wind plays against my face and ruffles my light pink blouse as I sit beneath a blue umbrella at the table. The smell of cypress and fir trees mixed with sea air is intoxicating.
Marco moves his seat so he’s sitting beside me instead of across the table. Our shoulders bump, his hand on my thigh as the waiter takes our order for the seafood platter. There’s a sweet, comfortable silence between us as we sit and watch the waves roll in and out. Yet I can tell that Marco has a lot on his mind—he’s usually a lot more conversational. Maybe it’s his awareness of how close we are to needing to end things. My wedding is coming up fast. Soon, I won’t be able to sneak away much at all, and once I’m officially married…this will all be over.
Forever.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get away.”
Squeezing his hand, I lean into him. “I’m running out of excuses. But I don’t care. I’d do anything to be with you,” I tell him.
Shoot. I hadn’t meant to say it quite like that, quite so seriously, even if it is the truth.
He cups my jaw and turns my head to claim my lips. I sigh into his mouth, letting myself get lost in the heat of his kiss. A soft rustling at the table draws us apart as the waiter sets down a large tray covered in lemon slices and cups of melted butter and green garnish and every kind of seafood imaginable. A pitcher of beer comes next, along with two frosty glasses. But I don’t dare drink, or someone in my house will smell it on my breath. The waiter brings a bottle of Pellegrino next. It’ll have to suffice.
Marco pours us two glasses of the water and raises his glass. “Salute.”
We link arms and take a drink from the other’s glass and laugh. “Salute!”
Two huge lobster claws are the centerpiece of the dish. “Do you know how to crack a lobster?” I ask playfully.
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Really?” I’m suspicious. “But you live in Napa. Surely you’ve had lobster before.”
He shrugs. “Someone always cracks it for me. I’m the baby of the family, after all.”
“So spoiled,” I tease him. “Here, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Grinning, I pick up the cracker and a lobster claw, then crush the claw in the center and pull the broken half away from the delicious white meat.
“What a professional,” Marco says. “You busted that poor claw into submission.”
“That’s right. Better watch out or I might take these home with me.” I click the cracking tongs with a wink.
