Page 38

Sistine

T he flicker of the candle seemed to blossom into the bright light of a fall day.

My eyes blinked against the brightness of it, and I turned to Mariano with a smile.

It fell. He was gone. His side of the bed had been touched by the chill in the air.

The chill could not touch the warmth of his scent.

It consumed the room, along with mine, and circulated as if a fan was on.

My eyes rose to the ceiling.

It was turned off.

I should have known. There was not a chance in hell Mariano would have allowed that fan on.

He was against anything touching me that was cold while my allergies raged.

At this point, it had turned into a cold, but I did not want to call it that in front of him.

He did not seem to do well with this term, or any term that would imply my body was fighting something his could not cure.

He even had slipped his footballer sweater over me.

I had not been wearing it when I fell asleep.

Next to the candle, he had left me a note:

My Annie,

Going for a run. Probably be back before you wake up. If you wake up before I get back, I left a thermos of sweetgrass tea for you. Drink up. And don’t forget to warn that fucking sock elf. If I come back and they’re gone, someone is going to fucking pay.

Miss you already, my Annie,

Mariano

My right leg stuck out of the covers. I must have kicked it off. That foot’s sock was gone. I tore the cover completely off, searching for it. I did not want any elves to die on my account.

“This what you’re looking for, Annie?”

My eyes snapped up, and an instant smile came to my face. “You’re my knight in shining armor!”

“Fuck me sideways,” he grumbled, coming to the bed, sitting beside me. He kissed me on the forehead, lips, that one lingering, before he took my leg and slipped my missing sock back on. “I can’t leave you alone or that fucking elf sneaks in and steals my sock.”

“Your sock?”

He reached over and poured me a cup of tea, then handed it to me.

“ Grazie ,” I whispered, my hands cradling it for the warmth.

His eyes glittered in the sunlight, and for a long moment, I was lost. Perhaps he was lost, as well, because he cleared his throat before he spoke. His voice was still as rough as gravel. “ Mine ,” he said, hitting his chest. “What’s yours is mine.”

“ Ahhhh ,” I said, blowing and grinning into my cup. “I see. Does this mean, what is yours, is ah , mine?”

He gave me a look, a look that was much too smooth and distinguished to label duh, but that was as far as my groggy brain would go.

“That sneaky fucker is a lucky son of a bitch. I figured out the game.”

“The game?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, the fucking game. He doesn’t really want your sock. He just wants to touch my feet.”

“ My feet.”

“ Mine. ”

“If they are yours, will you paint them?” I fluttered my lashes at him—jokingly.

He stood, looking around for the bin Atta had brought me with all her nail polish to borrow, setting his hands on his hips. “What fucking color?”

For whatever reason, this side to him made me giddy, and I set the cup on the bedside table and flung myself back, allowing my pillow— his pillow—to soften my fall.

I laughed as if someone was tickling me, rocking back and forth.

My laughter only grew louder when my eyes finally opened and I found him sniffing the cup, as if the sweetgrass was some other type of grass.

My cheeks were stiff, my chest was burning, and I was almost afraid to look at him again.

I peeked my eyes open and instantly regretted it.

He was standing with his arms crossed, muscles flexing, a perplexed look on his face as he watched me.

He was not kidding around about all the things I was laughing at.

I was messing around with him. Or as he would say, fucking messing with him.

He sighed. “The hay around here has fucking gone to your head or mine.” He grumbled something about fighting fake elves for feet. His feet. “You’re not well enough to go to the thing that’s planned.”

I popped up, running a hand down my hair. It was standing up straight, as if a chicken had pecked at in my sleep. “No! We end summer this way for as long as I can remember. With the wedding so close, it feels even more special. We must go.”

He eyed me. I eyed him back.

He sighed, longer this time, running a hand through his hair.

It was slick with sweat. His t-shirt and sweatpants were saturated with it as well.

He had probably woken up before the sun and had been working out for hours.

I knew what existed underneath his clothes and it took all my resolve to keep my face blank—free of any reaction that would put me at a disadvantage.

Mariano Fausti’s charm should never be underestimated.

He picked me up, flung me over his shoulder, and slapped my culo . “I’m counting the sneezes, Sistine Evita,” he said, his voice totally serious. “Over a certain amount, we’re coming back.”

I lifted my pointer finger, although he could not see me. “More than one, Mariano Fausti!” I sneezed.

He grumbled something I could not understand, then turned on the shower. He made me wait until the bathroom had lost its chill, steam so thick it reminded me of dense fog, before he undressed me and took me in there with him.

It was that stupid elf that did it. Made me as broody as Mariano could get when something weighed on his mind.

If he was willing to kill a fake elf that had been made up from some fairytale I had probably read as a child, or a sickness inside of me that drove him crazy because he could not fight it with fists, what would happen if he found out about Rattler and that night?

Atta was going to come clean with Angelo about the debt the ranch was in, along with Rattler and his family attempting to slither in and buy it, and I was going to be honest with Mariano about that as well.

Time ticked, and the ranch was almost out of the Watt family’s hands. The thought sobered me up, made me feel physically ill, and that feeling of helplessness snuck in through the carefully constructed armor I had placed to keep the memory of that night down.

Because this dark issue had a root. This root could be traced back to that night.

Mariano had his eyes on me as I finished up after our shower.

He waited in the doorway, leaning against it.

In the mirror, his reflection fused with mine, but where my eyes avoided, his did the staring.

He was dressed casually in a flannel, tank top, worn-down jeans, and boots.

I had gone casual as well. One of his flannels, sleeves rolled up, a white tank top, and cut-off shorts.

I had packed a pair of jeans for later, since the temperature would drop.

Instead of my hat, I tied a handkerchief that was similar in color to his eyes around my head.

I looked down.

He had been right. The boots on my feet did tell a story.

They had been with me for almost every life-changing event.

Even meeting Mariano Leone Fausti.

His body waited patiently; however, his eyes told a different tale. So did his muscles. The cords in his neck were swollen, as if the tension could not be contained in the place he kept control of it, and it was wild inside of him, causing him to have a physical reaction to it.

“I am ready,” I breathed out. “We just need our bags.” I went to slide past him, but there was not enough room.

His eyes locked onto mine. I looked away.

“Sistine,” he said, and I could tell he was not messing around as we had been doing earlier. His mood had changed, not even his workout helping ease the tension. He knew something was wrong with me, and he was determined to unearth what I had hidden from the world—hidden from him.

Instead of flaring up and snapping at him, I took his hand in mine, entwining our fingers. My eyes pleaded with him to let it go, for that moment.

“I will wait forever for you,” he said in Italian. “Whatever this is, this hidden thing, I will not wait long for. It is killing you; therefore, it is killing me. I will not stand for it.” His jaw tightened and his fist clenched at his side.

“I know,” I whispered, and he gave me a serious nod before he led me to the bedroom.

Mariano refused to allow me to carry any baggage, and we walked toward the caravan of waiting off-road vehicles, hand in hand, him lugging both of our bags over one shoulder.

He opened the shotgun door and I slid in, reaching over to make sure his door was unlocked.

He set our bags in the back and slid in, setting me next to him in one swoop.

I forced a smile on my face and pointed to Angelo’s truck as it bounced down the rough path. Marciano had found a vintage license plate that had “Sissy” on it. Angelo stuck it behind the shotgun seat for Atta.

“Romeo is going to flip!” I almost bounced in my seat, pointing to it. Angelo had told us how much Romeo loved the movie Urban Cowboy the night we had watched it.

Mariano cut his eyes to me before they went back to the road. “Tell me.”

His was still hard with tension. He was not messing around when he said he would not wait long for the truth.

I could not hide from him. Giving it one more shot, I smiled at him.

“Or would that confuse his hair? Ba da doo …” I pretended to make the sound that goes along with a cringy joke, drumsticks and all.

He gave me a narrow look.

“Not good?” I opened my hands. “Romeo’s hair would be confused—from the flip? It would be turned upside down…”

“The truth,” he said. “That would be fucking great.”

I released a breath and steeled myself as I told him a version of the truth. A version that would not cause a bloody battle.