Page 49 of Wounded King

I've never seen my mother cry. Not once. She's always been composed. Controlled. The woman who survived everything and still made dinner. Seeing her welling up did something to me… something I really, really don't want to think about right now, because right now I'm the happiest I've been in… ever. I'm excited and nervous, giddy, even, and my stomach is filled with butterflies.

Can I please enjoy one night? Just one? Please, Mom?

I've just finished my makeup when the ringing of the doorbell jump-startles me. "He's early," I tell my mirror self.

Before I open the front door, I take a deep, steadying breath that still doesn't prepare me for the sight greeting me on the other side. I swing the door back, and there he stands, holding out a bouquet of the most expensive flowers I've ever seen and looking even more devastating than normal. His cheeks have begun filling out again, and his pallor has returned to a nice olive tan. He's wearing a three-piece suit and looks like a model fromGmagazine.

"Hey," he says, holding out the flowers.

"Hey," I reply wittily and wave him in. "Thank you." I raise the flowers. "Let me just put these?—"

"You look stunning." His gray eyes move up and down my body. His lips curve slightly in appreciation, and I realize he's never seen me in anything but scrubs.

I don't know what demon rides me, but I spread my skirt and twirl, "You like it?"

"Like it?" He steps into my living room, no crutches, just a cane, and his eyes never move from me.

"Bellissima," he praises, sending warmth flooding my face. This Italian accent thing he has going is making my heart flutter. I nearly stumble over a foot stool on my way to the kitchen because I can't stop looking at him instead of where I'm going, and I rummage to find a vase that is at least halfway deserving of the flowers he bought for me.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask, while filling an embarrassingly cracked vase I got with a bouquet a lifetime ago for Valentine's Day from my brother-in-law.

"I'm good. Nice place," he says, looking around.

"Thanks, it's nothing fancy. One day I'll have my own."

There, the flowers are in the vase.

"Ready?" He wants to know when I return to the living room.

"Ready," I smile at him like a besotted teenager meeting her movie star crush.

I thought she was beautiful in scrubs—smart, sharp, a vision of control in chaos—but this? This is a goddamn knockout punch. That old-fashioned, flowing skirt hugs her hips like silk draped over temptation. The belt cinches her tiny waist, drawing my eyes to the flare of her hips. Hips that beg me to grab them with my hands, to own them. Her curls tumble down her shoulders in soft golden waves, and the light touch of makeup turns those already hypnotic hazel eyes into something lethal.

I picked Thomasolo for tonight on purpose. It is elegant, private, and expensive—but not flashy. The owner, Thomaso, keeps the guest list tighter than the Vatican vault. He only allows twenty tables per service, placing each with the intention of maximizing privacy without sacrificing ambiance.

"Oh, that's so beautiful," Violet breathes when we enter. Satisfaction runs through me that she's already enchanted.

The entire place gives the illusion of sitting outside on a starlit patio in Sicily, complete with a warm breeze that faintly smells of the ocean. I have no idea how he does this, and he's declined to share his secret. I like his food too much to torture him out of it.

Four medium-sized fountains serve to put more distance between the tables. Soft opera music floats through the loudspeakers, subtly accompanied by the illusory sound of crashing waves, all adding to the fantasy of sitting on a private terrace overlooking the ocean.

Violet's eyes are sparkling as she stares at the large wall to the left. The center is surrounded by wooden support beams and fronted by a short terracotta pony wall, filled with flower beds. Above the bed and between the beams is a large screen displaying the Mediterranean Sea as it would appear from a terrace in a continuous loop.

The maître de leads us to my usual table, right by the terracotta wall. Violet lifts her cute little button nose and sniffs deeply. "Does it really smell of salt and ocean?"

I nod. "Thomaso won't tell me how he does it."

Excited, she claps her little hands together. "This is so amazing. Thank you for bringing me here."

Her smile does something to me.Dangerous things."My pleasure."

The maître de places menus into our hands and a basket of steaming bread rolls, complete with butter cutouts in the shape of different seashells, on the table.

"Oh," Violet exclaims, with her lips slightly parted, and I vow that tonight, I will find out what they taste like.

Her eyes scan the menu while I order wine.

"See something you like?" I ask.