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Validated, I lift an eyebrow at her and start my dinner.
“Please don’t defend him,” she says.
Frenchy shows her his palms in surrender. “Just saying. If he weren’t so careful, he’d be dead already.”
“Every time I go out, someone is trying to kill me.”
Cristina pauses chewing, and oil trails down her chin.
Before she grabs a tissue, I swipe it with my thumb and lick my skin. “My dinner tastes sweeter when you look at me with disapproval in your eyes.”
She gets back to the subject at hand. “Maybe you should find a less deadly profession?”
“Or maybe I should eliminate all those who wish me or mine harm.”
“I hate to be the bearer of this news, but upon meeting you, that would be most people.”
I snatch her fork.
She picks up a spoon.
I snatch that too.
“Children,” Frenchy says. “Let us all behave.”
“She makes me want to bend her over my knee,” I bite out.
Frenchy smiles. “You do what you must.”
Cristina’s blushing again. I wonder if she’s picturing me spanking her. I suppress a groan. This is going to be a long night if I have to sit here the entire time with an erection.
“So,” Cristina says, eyes bright and wide, obviously ready to change the subject. “How long have you guys known each other?”
Frenchy side-eyes me, and I nod, telling him he can speak freely.
“I’ve known the Mancini family since I met Severio’s grandfather. We served together and stayed friends over the years. Whenever they’d visit the island, they’d come here, not as often as I’d like, but…well, Severio was about ten, a wee boy, this tall when I met him. Quiet. Strong. Nose in a book.”
“In a book, really?” she asks.
I nod. “I still read every chance I get.”
“Morning papers,” she says, then looks away, appearing uncomfortable.
“Unlike you.” He points at Cristina. “Always with her hair full of sand and head full of ideas. You remember her, don’t you, Severio?”
I tense. I thought he’d forgotten.
Cristina looks from me to him. “Remember what?”
Frenchy’s cutting more bread for dipping, so he doesn’t see my glare. “Severio found you limping across the street. He picked you up and carried you in here. You had cut your foot on a rock.”
She looks from me to Frenchy. “When was this?”
“You were too young to remember,” I say.
“When was it?” she presses.
“Oh, I’d say a good twenty some years ago. Yeah, yeah, it was right outside. He sat you down on the chair and called for me. The seashell had lodged itself between your toes, and you were bleeding pretty badly. Did you forget?” he asks.
