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Chapter fifty-six

Luca

I t’s both a blessing and a curse that Samara is seated beside me and not in front of me. A blessing because while she’s letting me keep my hand in her lap, at least I don’t have to keep staring at her gorgeous curves and stunning face while I try to eat my meal. In reality, I just want to eat her.

It’s also a curse for those exact same reasons.

“Suh, Luca, do yuh ave anyting fun planned fi yuh an Samara tomorrow? We love tuh spen di whole day wid both of uno, but Camila an mi ago pan a romantic excursion,” her dad tells me, looking down at his wife lovingly.

“I actually do have a little something planned for her, but it’s a surprise, so we’ll have to tell you about it afterward.” I wink at him. Little does Samara know that I’m not just covering for us. I really do have a surprise planned for her. I rented a cabana at a beach just outside of the city so we could be completely away from the prying eyes of her family.

“Oh really, a surprise,” Vea says, her chestnut eyes glimmering. “I’m all for it, but this one,” she says, bumping her shoulder against Samara’s, “ain’t havin’ it.”

A surge of protectiveness possesses me. I don’t like the way her family sometimes speaks about her. In fact, it drives me up a goddamn wall, and as much as I’d like to believe that this is a part of their normal banter, I’ve gotten to know Samara well enough to realize it affects her, even if her family doesn’t seem to recognize that.

“I don’t know, Vea. It seems to me you must just have crappy surprises.” I wink at her, hoping to cut the edge from my words.

“You got jokes, huh?” She chuckles again, laughing at her sister’s expense.

Mercifully, the waitress comes out with dessert menus. “Does anyone want something for dessert?”

I certainly know what I’d like to be having, but it doesn’t sound like she’s on the menu for tonight.

Samara and I immediately shake our heads in unison. I’m stuffed to the brim. “I’m so full I could burst,” I joke. “Thank you though.” I smile at her.

“Same here, thank you,” Samara tells her with a friendly smile.

“Oh, come on, Luca, you can’t come to the Dominican and not have pudin de pan!” Camila argues. It doesn’t go unnoticed to me that Samara stiffens at her mom’s choice of words, only addressing me and not her daughter.

“I promise, I’ll save room for it tomorrow night.” As an Italian American, I know how important food can be culturally, but I don’t make a habit of overeating. It makes me feel like shit, and ultimately, I wouldn’t enjoy it anyway.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but I’m holding you to that. You’re missing out,” she assures me.

After they’ve had their dessert, we all say our goodbyes and go our separate ways.

Thank fuck because I’m exhausted.