Page 15

He stares at the sky.

“What’s your family like?”

Is that longing in his voice?

“I suppose we’re like most families. We love to spend time together, but we can be competitive and argue a lot.”

I chuckle, remembering some of our happy times.

“What did you just think about?”

“We used to have barbecues every weekend. My dad and his brother moved to LA as young, newly married men. They had a double wedding. They got houses only two streets away from each other. We alternated hosting barbecues and every single time, they argued over who was the best at grilling meat.”

“Didn’t your mom and aunt stop them?”

There’s definitely a wistful note to Vincenzo’s voice. It makes me think of a kid listening to a magical story.

“Me cousin and I used to get so mad about that when we were little. My mom and aunt let them get on with it while they prepared the food to go with the barbecue and went over the steps from that week’s dance class. They took lessons at the local dance club.”

I smile at the array of beautiful colors above.

“My cousin Elsie and I used to feel so sorry for ourselves because our parents were hopelessly in love, they allowed each other to get away with so much. We’d roll our eyes and feel kind of embarrassed whenever they held each other’s hands, did the slow dance or kissed in front of us. Our grandparents are like that too. But the things I thought I hated are what I remember most when I think of my family.”

“You miss them.”

I gaze at him. He’s still staring at the sky and still sounds like he wants to hear more.

“A lot. My parents, uncle and aunt moved back to Michigan to be near my aging grandparents and Elsie is traveling.”

I set the plate down on the little side table.

“What about you?”

He’s silent for so long, I think he won’t answer.

“My mother taught me Italian.”

The sun is starting to come up over the eastern wall of the yard. Gold light. Slanting across the water in the pool. Warming the tile behind our loungers.

“She’s the only family I had.”

“Vincenzo.”

“Don’t. She passed away when I was ten. That was twenty-nine years ago. I’ve moved on.”

Yet, she was important to him. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about his mother but I can feel she mattered a lot to him. In that moment, I realize how much I want to know about this man. I want him physically, but I also wish to hear about his relationship with his mother. I want to know about his life as a teen and what led him to become the workaholic he is. As well as why there are no photos in the house, why he doesn’t spend any time relaxing in this beautiful house.

I reach across the space between the loungers and lay my palm on top of his knuckles.

His hand goes very still under mine.

He doesn’t turn his palm up or thread his fingers through mine but he doesn’t pull his hand away.

The sun climbs another quarter of an inch. My fingers stay where they are.

I take a breath.

“What do you expect a mistress to do?” Heat creeps up my neck.