Page 75 of Tempting Tessa

I take a sip of water, buying time. “Nothing’s going on. I’ve just been focused on the business.”

“Bullshit.” The word comes out harsh, making me flinch. “I know when you’re lying to me. You’ve been doing it since you were five years old and you still haven’t gotten any better at it. Now I know you didn’t break a vase like when you were a child, so fess up.”

“Dad—”

“Don’t ‘Dad’ me.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re hiding something, and I want to know what it is.”

I glance toward the door, praying Matteo stays outside a little longer. “Can we talk about this another time? I really need to get going.”

“Without finishing the rest of the bacon?” He raises an eyebrow.

I need to end this conversation. Now. “Look, Dad, I have a lot to do today. Can we catch up properly next week? I promise I’ll call you and we’ll do dinner.”

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Fine. But we’re not done with this conversation.”

Relief floods through me. “Great. Give Kat and Sofia my love.”

I reach for my phone, planning to text Matteo to stay the hell away until my father leaves. My fingers are trembling as I unlock the screen and open our message thread.

But before I can type a single word, I feel the shift in the air. My stomach drops as I look up to find him striding toward our table, his eyes locked on mine.

No. No, no, no.

I try to catch his eye, like abort mission, motherfucker. Do not come over here and act all MINE! with my dad right there. Please eight-pound, one-ounce baby Jesus do not act like you’re with me.

“Stellina,” he says as he reaches the table, completely ignoring my father’s presence. His eyes drop to his plate, then back to me. “I see you did indeed steal my bacon.”

The world stops spinning. Well, guess my prayers to the infant Jesus were not heard. My father’s head snaps up, his expression hardening as recognition dawns.

“Matteo?” His voice is dangerously quiet. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Matteo’s eyes finally shift to my father, and I watch as the realization hits him. For a split second, something flashes across his face before a mask of composure slides back into place.

“Funny running into you here,” Matteo says, his voice smooth as silk as he slides into the chair beside me. He reaches for his water glass and takes a leisurely sip, like we’re all just old friends catching up over brunch and not standing on the edge of a fucking volcano.

My father’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “I asked you a question, Marino.”

Matteo sets the glass down with deliberate calm. “I’m having brunch with Contessa. What does it look like?”

The tension is suffocating. I can practically see the gears turning in my father’s head, connecting dots that I’ve been desperately trying to keep separate.

“So I guess Natalia actually means,” my father turns to me, his voice dropping into a tone that used to make me confess to everything from sneaking out to breaking curfew, “Uncle Matteo, huh?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat has gone bone dry.

“Matteo,” my father repeats, testing the name like it tastes wrong in his mouth. “My Matteo. My best friend of twenty-five years.”

“Dad, it’s not⁠—”

“Quiet, Contessa.” He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes are locked on Matteo like a predator sizing up prey. “I want to hear this from him.”

Matteo leans back in his chair, completely unbothered. “We were having brunch. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” My father’s laugh is cold and humorless. “You expect me to believe that? That you just happened to be having brunch with my daughter, alone, on a Sunday morning?”

I glance desperately between them, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure they can both hear it. Matteo is sipping his water again, the picture of casual indifference, while my father looks like he’s about to flip the fucking table.

“Conrad,” Matteo says, setting his glass down, “we’re both adults. Contessa and I⁠—”