Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Chapter 15
Lucia
As I enter my favorite diner, I rub my tired eyes. I slipped out of my apartment before sunrise, a mere hour after Dante finished fucking me to oblivion. The crisp air during my long walk woke me, but it didn’t cut through the heated ache still lingering on my skin.
I shouldn’t feel this way after only one night, especially when I can’t do attachments. When Gabriele moves, I move too. That means no roots, no ties, and no hearts tangled up in things that can’t last.
Inside the diner, plates clatter and an overworked espresso machine hisses. The sounds and smells here are familiar and safe.
I sit in my usual booth before flipping through one of the worn newspapers stacked by the door. The job classifieds are sparse today, but sparse beats nothing.
“Coffee?” Not waiting for me to reply, Luna, an ex-stripper, refills my mug. Refills are free, so when I expect to stay longer than a few hours, I splurge on a ninety-nine-cent coffee. Sometimes Luna pretends I’ve already paid when I leave, and half the time I pretend she’s right.
The warmth of a freshly poured coffee seeps into my fingers as I go through the job listings. I try to keep my focus on the black ink on white pages, but my mind continually drifts back to how Dante looked at me like he wanted to keep me forever.
I can’t be kept. I know that, but the wish to belong won’t stop stirring under my skin. I wish I could forget what my past taught me, but this isn’t a fairy tale.
It’s rare for someone like me to get a Happily Ever After.
I circle an advertisement for a cage dancer at a nightclub when the bell over the door jingles. My heart thuds wildly when Camille walks in first, her smile as bright as a sparkler, with Dante following closely behind her.
I knew he’d find me, but no amount of coercion could make me alter my routine. Not all of my decision centers around my wish to see Dante again.
This stretch of Carlisle draws families. From the boutique stores a few doors down to the parks on every corner, the sidewalks are full of family members enjoying their day. My favorite booth faces the street. Even with my head buried in the classifieds, I take in every face that passes, hopeful to see one barely tall enough to be visible above the brickwork.
Dante and Camille don’t sit with me. They take the booth across the aisle, giving me the space I’m silently demanding.
While Dante orders enough food for an army, Camille continually glances over with big, hopeful eyes. The longer I stubbornly deny her silent pleas for me to sit with them, the wetter her eyes become.
I wave at her, hating that she’s about to cry. She waves back, but her hand’s movement is barely a blip compared to how hard her bottom lip is trembling.
When I shoot my eyes to Dante, wanting to make sure he’s aware his daughter is upset, he patiently waits, knowing I’ll eventually come to them.
And damn him—he’s right.
Before my head can talk my heart out of it, I tear out the job listings section of the paper, slip it into my pocket, then slide out of my booth. Camille beams when I move to their half of the diner, and the valve in my chest releases.
I’ve missed this. Being wanted without conditions is a drug I could become addicted to.
“Join us.” Dante slides across the booth so I can sit next to him.
“Oh… um, I’ve already eaten…” My words trail off when my stomach involuntarily grumbles.
My eyes rocket to Dante when he says, “Has anyone ever told you karma misses nothing? Every lie, even the little ones, is recorded, and every shortcut is remembered.” His following words shoot directly to my soul. “You don’t seem the type who wants to be on the wrong side of karma. So let me ask again. Join us?”
Camille’s happy sigh is silent when I plop into the booth next to Dante, but its ripple swells my heart as much as Dante announcing that he ordered me a bacon and egg muffin with a side of hashbrowns.
“Bacon almost burned, right?”
I’m so enamored by how he remembers the smallest details that I forget stalking isn’t meant to be endearing. “Crispy. Bacon should always be crispy.”
Camille’s eyes stop bouncing between Dante and me when the waiter arrives with our order. She licks her lips hungrily when crepes drizzled with more Nutella than fresh fruit is put down in front of her.
She digs in, freeing me to inspect my breakfast like I’m accustomed to eating at Michelin restaurants. The bacon is the perfect amount of crispness, and before I can remember that greed isn’t a commodity I can hoard, I take a big bite of the muffin.