Page 159

He helped me out of my chair, then led me to the table. “This is romantic,” he said, holding my seat out. “I should leave for Italia more often if this is my homecoming.”
“Don’t you dare.” I was dead serious. “I hate when you’re gone this long.”
As he sat, he picked up my hand off the table and kissed it. “I don’t like it either, amore mio.”
The server brought our first course. As we ate, Vito caught me up on his trip and I told him about the winery and my classes. When the meat course arrived, Vito’s eyes went wide. “This is one of my favorites,” he said. “I haven’t had it in ages. My brother used to make it on the yacht.”
As if I didn’t know.
“Well, we’ll have to see if this chicken piccata is as good as your brother’s.” To the server, I winked, then she smiled and left.
Vito groaned as he chewed. “Fuck me, this tastes just like Massimo’s.”
“Oh, good. I’ll be sure to tell the chef that you approve.”
“Approve? You should double their salary to ensure they never leave.”
I could never afford Massimo, not since he’d opened his own place in Rome. They were well on their way to getting a Michelin star, from what Vito said.
Our plates were cleared and dessert soon followed. My palms were sweating as Vito pushed his tiramisu toward me. “You have it, amore. I’m full and I know how you love it.”
I wiped my damp hands on my napkin. “You should eat it,” I urged. “I’m going to give you a serious workout later.”
His expression turned wolfish as he leered at me. “And I will have plenty to eat then.”
My pussy clenched, eagerly anticipating the instant it could get reacquainted with his tongue. I tried to sound nonchalant. “Seriously, baby. Eat.”
“Will this make you happy?”
This was something he asked often, like he was gauging the risk/reward probability. “Very.”
He picked up his fork and cut a large bite. Then he slipped the dessert into his mouth. Because I had zero chill, I couldn’t help but watch.
His teeth clanked on metal and he froze. Then his eyes narrowed in confusion. I held my breath as he reached and spit the metal into his napkin. “Che cazzo?” he said and put the napkin on the table. “Is your chef trying to kill one of us?”
“What was that?” I gestured to the napkin.
“I don’t know,” he snarled and touched his tongue to one of his back molars. “Fuck. I hope I didn’t crack a tooth.”
“But aren’t you curious? Maybe you should look.”
So that I couldn’t see it, he unfolded the napkin below the table. Total class move. My man might be a murderer, but he had table manners.
I saw the instant he realized. He jolted in his chair, his stare locked on what was in his hand. Was he even breathing? The sweat under my armpits compounded and I nibbled on my thumbnail as I awaited a reaction. Would he hate it?
Slowly, he lifted the round gold circle up to his face. “Is this . . . ?”
Reaching out, I plucked the wedding band from his fingers. Legs shaking, I got down on one knee. The floor was stone, so I did my best. God, this was awkward. How did men do this all the time?
“Vito D’Agostino, it’s time I made an honest man out of you. Ish.” I laughed nervously at my dumb joke. When he didn’t crack a smile, I sobered. “I don’t want to spend so much time apart. I’m ready to build a life with you, whatever that looks like. I love you and I want to marry you. And I’m hoping you want to marry me, too.”
He blinked twice. “You know I do. I’ve raised the subject no fewer than a dozen times.”
“I know, but I thought I would officially ask.”
In one quick motion, he pushed his chair back, stood, and pulled me to my feet. Then he was kissing me again, but these were gentle kisses. The kind that replaced words when you couldn’t think of what to say and you could onlyfeel.
Finally, he rested his forehead against mine. “Sì, amore. I want to marry you.”