Page 12 of Forbidden Pregnancy (The Buffalo Italian Mob Family #2)

Chapter Nine

Myra

L ast week, I saw some humanity in Michael for the first time since I started tutoring his sister Cosima.

There’s something going on with that family, but they pay me not to ask any questions and I signed an NDA not to talk to anyone about anything I see in that mansion.

I’m still doing cartwheels internally from the first edition copy of The Song of Solomon he gave me from the library.

I can’t believe a masked stranger hasn’t shown up at my house to accuse me of stealing it and to snatch it back from me. Michael’s generosity and his gentleness the rest of the afternoon might actually be warming me up to him. Weird.

This week, I feel strangely nervous about what to wear to the lesson.

I don’t normally fuss about my makeup or outfits.

I definitely won’t ever obey Michael’s crass command to wear something low-cut.

After agonizing over my wardrobe, I find a modest mustard yellow maxi-dress with small red flowers all over it and a high neckline that covers everything.

The dress has long, flowing sleeves and after a thorough check in front of my full body mirror, I ensure it isn’t see-through.

I don’t want to give Michael any ideas.

When I arrive at the mansion, I can tell he’s been fighting with Cosima, even if they’re both quiet when I enter the library school room.

Her eyes are red like she’s been crying.

Michael leans back with a brooding scowl on his face, staring at the bookshelves and only perking up a little when I enter the room.

“Straighten your back,” Michael says to Cosima. “Myra’s here for your lessons.”

Cosima gives her brother a vicious glare. The two of them seem already at each other’s throats and the work here hasn’t started. I want to stay out of their conflict, but if Michael raises his voice at her, I won’t be able to control myself.

For now, Cosima doesn’t complain. She straightens her back.

“I’ll cancel your riding lesson if you continue this tantrum,” Michael grunts.

To cancel out his grumpy attitude, I smile warmly at Cosima and introduce the lesson for today with the structure and warmth that she clearly needs. She’s a smart girl. I know there are secrets in this house getting in the way of her openness towards learning.

I start with a story to break the tension. Le Petit Nicolas is a classic for learning French, and Cosima loves the story. Within half an hour, she’s calm and writing a short essay about the differences between French boys and American boys – what they eat, where they live, that sort of thing.

While she writes, I try to stay focused on my lesson plan or her penmanship, but Michael’s persistent staring makes it nearly impossible to focus. Why does he keep looking at me like that? It honestly looks like the man wants to eat me or something and it’s very distracting.

First, he touched my face three weeks ago. Then last week after he gave me the Toni Morrison book, we just mumbled awkward goodbyes and I didn’t think much of it except noting how strangely kind the gesture was for Michael.

Now, he’s just staring at me relentlessly and I don’t know if it’s flirting or… something else. Entitlement.

Michael wants me because I’m here and because he lives in a world where nobody says no to rich Italian men.

Cosima reluctantly switches her attention over from reading in French to her pre-algebra studies.

She’s good at math, but she doesn’t enjoy it.

Cosima exaggerates her scowl as she bitterly works on the problem sheet I printed out.

Whenever I glance at the work, she’s correct, but she sighs every 2-3 problems as if the end game here is having nails driven into her palms.

“Keep going. You can do this.”

Cosima gives me a dramatic, pleading expression, but I maintain firm kindness with her that strangely motivates her to continue.

By her riding lesson, she’s reluctant to leave and engages me in conversation about what her story for petit Nicolas might be.

Michael gives her sharp directions to head to the stables and Cosima sticks out her tongue before sprinting away.

Michael doesn’t chase after her. He leans back, staring at me with that terrifying, wolfish gaze.

I clear my throat to draw attention to his creepy staring and open up my lesson planning binder to grade some of Cosima’s work and assess her progress for the weekly report I prepare as part of this whole tutoring gig.

“You need help with anything?”

“Are you a qualified teacher?” I ask him.

“No,” Michael says, unbothered by my clear desire to stop talking to him. “I’m a qualified assistant, though. I went to college.”

“Congratulations.”

“Played as a tight end at Syracuse.”

I roll my eyes. Everybody around here has this absolute obsession with the Buffalo Bills, including Michael Corsini.

I’ve seen the signs all over him – the small tattoo, the C.J.

Spiller merchandise, the phone case… But I don’t care much about football.

The guys can be attractive sometimes, but it’s not worth it if they’re all assholes.

“What?” Michael asks, leaning over the table and getting way too close to me. “Don’t like football?”

“I would much rather read a book than watch a bunch of grown men play around on a field like little boys.”

“Jeez.”

“I’m entitled to my own opinion.”

“Sure,” Michael says. Then he grins, which annoys the hell out of me. “But you, Teacher Myra, just gave me some very valuable information with that opinion of yours.”

“What might that be?”

“You aren’t getting laid.”

Heat flushes all over me, spreading from my cheeks down to my neck.

Michael has the cocky swagger of someone who sees women as conquests.

I’ve never heard him (or Cosima for that matter) mention him having a girlfriend.

Michael’s looks would work on most women too.

He’s the worst type of asshole for that reason alone, honestly.

“That is so inappropriate, Michael.”

The anger behind my voice is 100% real, but Michael keeps smirking at me like he won some contest I wasn’t aware of.

“I’m right,” he says, continuing to eye me with that nerve-wracking hunger from before. “There’s no guy waiting for you at home to tongue fuck you into an orgasm after I piss you off all afternoon.”

“Please. Stop. Talking.”

I don’t break eye contact with him. I heard breaking eye contact with predators indicates fear and weakness, which is the last message I want to convey to Michael.

My body begins responding like I’m under attack.

He fixates his eyes on mine and then they drop inappropriately to my boobs.

They’re as glassy and blue as cracked icicles, yet visibly dark in their intentions despite the otherwise beautiful color.

Michael sits between me and the only exit. Even if he wasn’t leaning back there with his dense slab of muscle blocking my access to an easy escape, he told me he played football in college. He could probably still throw me at least ten yards, even if I’m not exactly lightweight…

I just need to get out.

“What’s the big deal, Myra? You don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t have a girlfriend. Though many would be honored.”

“Get a hold of yourself.”

“It’s true,” Michael says calmly. “I’m not bragging.”

“Like you weren’t bragging about being a college football player? Like you don’t show off every chance you get? Michael… How about we return to our own separate activities. I have a job to get done.”

“Grading kid homework? How hard can it be?”

“I’m busy, Michael.”

“I’m not.”

He stands up and instinctively, I stand up too. This feels like a mistake judging by the smile on Michael’s face.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says.

“Michael…”

“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he says. “Cosima rides over through the apple orchards and if we climb up to the guest house, we can get a perfect view of the riding trails and the pond.”

Under any other circumstances, the prospect of a nature walk and an easily accessible awe-inspiring view would grab my attention, but I maintain an air of cool disinterest. Does Michael really think it will be that easy to get me to let my guard down?

“I heard solo walks are the latest trend in men’s mental health.”

“Come with me,” Michael asks in a deep, commanding voice. “I’ll keep my hands off you and you can tell me all about that old book I gave you.”

“You don’t care about The Song of Solomon .”

If he thought Toni Morrison was a rapper, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“I don’t,” Michael says honestly (and a little too quickly). “I care about your thoughts.”

“I doubt that.”

Michael comes over to me and presses his hand to the small of my back. I want to freeze up or accuse him of being a chauvinist, but I find the gesture oddly touching and more gentle than I expected his touch to ever feel. Foolishly, I let him guide me towards the study room’s door.

Why am I going for a walk with Michael Corsini?

Why does he even want this? I feel suspicious.

I’ve never had much male attention in my life and it’s hard to think of this attention from Michael as anything more than a twisted game.

But I still want this job and maybe I can use this walk to get him to treat his younger sister better. That would be a victory, wouldn’t it?

Once we reach the front door, Michael holds it open for me and then slips his hand in mine.

My body stiffens as I try to process him touching me at all, much less holding me in this strangely intimate manner.

He’s just making sure I don’t run away. The justification makes sense and brings me a buttload of peace as Michael points to the path and practically drags me away from the school room around the manicured grounds of the Corsini family property.