Page 93

Mariano

O ne week.

One, fucking , week.

We would be on a plane—our honeymoon waiting in the sand, before the water, in a bure (a wood and straw cabin) in Fiji. Even though Sistine knew where we were going, she didn’t have much, since her things hadn’t been delivered from Venice. I wanted her to have a new wardrobe anyway.

Mamma, Magpie, Mia, Zia Juliette, Zia Carmen, and Evelina (Mac’s daughter and Rio’s sister) took my wife shopping.

I was almost fucking afraid of what they had all convinced my wife to buy.

She had no limit, but even so, she only came back with…

enough. When I asked her how it went, she only shrugged and said I would see when we arrived in Fiji.

That wasn’t what I’d asked her, but a gorgeous blush colored her cheeks, and a mischievous smile came to her face.

One week.

In Fiji, on our private section of the island, she wouldn’t need any clothes. Though taking them off her was addicting. Everything she wore turned me the fuck on.

In the meantime, I was working the ranch.

Taking care of odd jobs here and there to prepare for my absence.

Sistine was still getting used to the villa and the area.

After the day Fate had shown everyone how meant to be we were, she seemed more secure, calling it our place, our home. And she was sticking close to me.

Sometimes I would catch a far-off look in her eyes, like something heavy was burdening her. When I’d mention it, she would wave it off, claiming she was just thinking about…life. Looking forward to it like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from.

The way she said it, how fucking sweet, broke my heart.

I walked inside to check on her. We were going out to the stables together, but I had to grab a few things from the tool shed. I wanted to fix that fucking broken sign that came close to breaking my head. My wife told me she’d meet me outside. She wanted to grab a glass of water.

She was at the refrigerator, gazing into space, eating the lemon chicken soup Mamma taught her how to make.

Except Sistine made it without the chicken.

She said she never had an issue with it before, but it made her nauseous.

Basically, she was all about the lemon pasta soup.

When I’d mentioned she was eating it, what I fucking meant was that she was almost inhaling it.

She was slurping up the pasta straight from the pot, along with carrots, the juice, whatever was in there.

Grinning, I leaned against the wall, watching her. It did my heart good to see her eating as she was. She never had an issue with food, but after she had gotten sick, sometimes she would turn her nose up at certain items. Like the chicken.

She was lost in space, though, almost absentmindedly eating.

What the fuck was on her mind?

It seemed to be weighing on her, and she didn’t want to share it with me. I wanted to steal it from her, like an outlaw.

She turned toward the door and, when she found me standing there, she screamed and flung the pot at me. There wasn’t much left, but what was still in the pot spread out on the floor. Our two four-legged vacuum cleaners, Apollo and Zeus, were going nuts over it.

I’d caught the pot before it hit the floor, but I looked up, feeling something cold and wet on my forehead. A lone pasta strand.

“Bullseye.” I shook my head, flinging it off.

“Shit!” She slapped a hand to her heart. “You scared it out of me.” My wife shook her head. “For a man who is so solid, you move too lightly. What were you doing?”

“Watching my wife. The honor of my life. You still hungry, Annie?” I set the pot in the sink.

“No, I, ah, had enough. Do not worry about wiping the floor. I am going to clean after we visit the stables.” She went to grab for a napkin, but I took her by her—my—flannel and pulled her in.

I kissed her lips, tasting buttery lemon and a hint of something that was all my wife. When she was dirty, I’d clean her.

She melted into me and whispered, “Seven days, but who is counting?”

“Us,” I said, keeping a grip on her, staring into her eyes. The soup was on my lips, too, and even that small fucking thing made me feel even more connected to her.

Mamma had once told me that love, for lack of a better word, wasn’t in the big gestures, but the small ones. She is a smart woman, my mamma.

Sistine fell into me. When she started to get dazed like that, her eyes softening, melting into mine, I refused to let go.

My heart raced, my breath was strained, and my cock got hard.

All from looking into her eyes. The whisper of her breath across my lips.

The way her hands were soft but held onto me as though they were the strongest fucking things on this earth.

This is a woman.

Mine.

She squeezed my arm and pulled away. Catching her breath. Then she came back for another kiss before she pulled away again. “Did you go to school for this?”

“For kissing?”

Her eyes slowly opened, and a grin stretched her face before she exploded with laughter.

Reaching around my hold on her, she smoothed out my eyebrows and made a childish noise at me.

“Your forehead wrinkles when something makes you curious, or you cannot figure out what I mean.” The smile seemed glued to her face.

“Yes, a kissing school for Fausti men. I do not know how you do it, but you are magical at it. I levitate.”

I grinned at her and kissed her nose. I released the flannel but never her. I took her hand in mine, keeping a solid grip on her in case the floor was slippery, and led her outside. My eyes kept going back to her. I couldn’t fucking look away.

She stopped walking, shielding her eyes with her free hand. “ Che cosa ?”

“You know the answer to this, but I’m going to say it any fucking way.

” I kissed her finger above her engagement ring.

The priceless blood diamond. It wasn’t worth anything to me unless it was on her left hand, left finger.

“You are fucking gorgeous, Annie. Even before you got pregnant, you were always glowing. Like soft candlelight exists underneath your skin.”

She glanced down at herself in question, and this time I smoothed the wrinkle from her forehead.

Her thick eyebrows were pulled in. Thick but not overdone.

Everything about her was perfectly balanced.

Her hair reminded me of a cappuccino, which reminded me of Grossetto in the fall.

Her skin was still pale, but her coloring seemed to be a mixture of delicate pink and soothing olive.

Her hazel eyes danced in the light, and just as it did to her, it enhanced the pinwheel of colors.

Her lips were the soft part of her face, balancing out what could have been considered cold.

The sharp line of her nose. The high cheekbones that were almost cutting.

I ran my fingers over the crease between her eyebrows again.

Her eyebrows were a tad bit darker than the shade of her hair.

“You say this even when I am in plain clothes,” she whispered.

“Doesn’t matter what clothes you wear, Annie. I want to tear them off. They block my body from yours.”

She sighed. “I—” She looked away.

I turned her face back to mine. “Tell me.”

A chilled wind blew, and it rustled her hair. I moved the piece away from her eyes, my warm fingers lingering where the cold had touched her skin. Then I reached in my pocket and slipped her sunglasses over her eyes. Even in “ranch” clothes, they somehow worked.

In that moment, I knew the sunglasses were a representation of my wife.

She could work anywhere in the world.

She set her hand over my wrist. It was so tiny in comparison.

A feeling of protectiveness like I had never known before seemed to rise in me.

Just that view—how small her bones were in comparison to mine—made me feel like a man, the lion in my chest roaring, reminding me that, if she was ever in trouble, the man would disappear, and the hunter would rear his head.

“You are trembling,” she whispered. “Are you cold?” She almost looked concerned at that.

“No, Annie,” I breathed out. “I’m not cold. My feelings for you have me in a fucking choke hold.”

“Ah,” she breathed out, holding me tighter, keeping eye contact.

This woman knew. She was my feelings.

She released the pressure and said, “The clothes you wear around the ranch…the white shirt, usually rolled up on the arms, sometimes untucked and hanging from your pants, all your tattoos on display, sweat dripping down your tan skin, combined with the riding pants, the dirty boots…and when you wear the vest… dannazione. ” She licked her lips.

Her eyes fluttered when a deep breath left my mouth. “Did you just say I’m your fantasy, Annie? Is that what I heard?”

She backed up, putting her hands up, smiling. “I did!”

I stopped short, and so did she. My hand went over my heart and I pretended to stumble.

“Mariano!” She rushed to me, setting her hands on me, asking in rapid Italian if I was okay.

“Yes,” I forced out, making my voice sound old and feeble. “I will live.”

“You will live? Dio !” She took me by the shoulders, her eyes frantically glancing around for help. “Dr. Musa!” she shouted.

“I will live,” I repeated, “but I cannot believe it has happened.” I took a labored breath.

“ What ? What has happened?”

“You.” I forced the word out. “Have. Admitted that to me!” I couldn’t hold back any longer. I exploded with laughter. “I.” My words were raspy and bumpy. “Can die a happy man!”

All the times she refused to admit how she felt about me. All the fucking spice and sass, even though her eyes were as hungry for me as I was for her. She had been fighting it.

She blinked at me, then she came after me with her slap hand ready. She was beating my ass. When she could not get to my ass, she flicked my ear. I shivered, making the noise to go with, running a hand along my chest. I liked when she beat my ass.

“Do you like that too, my wife?”