Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The cake arrives like a crown jewel, carried on a silver tray by a butler dressed in a tuxedo, and everyone moves in close. Tears prick my eyes when the attendees break into the familiar melody of “Happy Birthday.” I’m not being emotional solely because they sing it in Italian. It’s because this time last year I was told it would be Mom’s last birthday.
I’m so glad she proved the doctors wrong.
My mother must be feeling the same heavy sentiment. After brushing a tear off her cheek, she blows out the candles in one graceful breath and then giggles as if she’s years younger when the guests cheer, “Hip hip hooray!”
I glance at Giovanni when his father warns my mother of the consequences of the knife hitting the base of the cake tray, while drifting closer. “You have to kiss the closest boy. That is the rule, Concetta. And we both know how much you love following the rules.”
Giovanni’s smile is there, but it’s tight, like a mask stretched too far. That is, until he spots my gawk. Then his smile turns genuine, and it makes my pussy ache.
I’m about to join him, craving his closeness, but Aunt Maria cozies up to my side, thwarting my wish.
“Tell me you see that too, tesoro?” Her eyes snap to my mother, who’s glowing like a woman half her age and in love. How do I know this? She looks exactly how I did while putting on makeup hours ago. “I swear, Valentina, if Giuseppe isn’t careful, she’ll faint from excitement before he gets anything good from her.”
“Stop.” I gag to hide my grin, but my lips curve anyway. It’s good to tease and gossip. It feels normal. “Her cheeks are heated because she’s tired—”
“Of sidestepping all the duds who chased her after she let that god go.”
Absentmindedly, I accept a dessert plate from someone on my right. My mind is too fogged trying to decipher my aunt’s riddle to offer my thanks, let alone name the person who handed me a slice of my mom’s favorite dessert.
The chocolate fudge cake with raspberry filling and ganache frosting smells so divine that I pick at it while prying for more information. “What do you mean? They were only friends, right? Giuseppe is years older than Mom.”
“With age comes experience,” my aunt practically croons. “And who are you to talk? Giovanni is ten years older than you.”
I talk around swirls of chocolate frosting melting on my tongue. “How do you know that?” I’ve shared many things with her and Mom during our daily visits to the hospital, but since Giovanni is in attendance with us, I keep most of the conversations centered on Mom’s prognosis and upcoming radiation schedule. “I’ve never mentioned his age.”
“The walls in this town whisper.” I slap her hand away when she snatches a raspberry drizzled with a sweet nectar and crushed almonds off my plate and pops it into her mouth. “And I’m always listening.”
After bumping me with her hip, she shadows closely behind Mom and Giuseppe when he guides her out of the dining room. They can’t be leaving. Since we’re not guaranteed a set amount of time, my mother never leaves without first saying goodbye. Giuseppe is most likely directing her to the closest bathroom since most guests washed down their meal with half a dozen glasses of wine.
Even though my heart sings a happy serenade when it detects Giovanni’s closeness a second before his torso warms my back and his lips find my neck, my tone sounds firm when I say, “If you eat a single morsel of my dessert, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.” Unladylike, I shove a forkful of cake into my mouth and talk around it. “There are plenty of leftovers”—I nudge my head to the table housing more slices of cake than there are guests hovering in close to collect a slice—“over there.”
I sense his smile more than I see it. “I’m good.” His prickles graze my skin when he drags his lips down my neck to pepper my skin with kisses. “I’ll have my favorite dessert later.”
A delicious shiver rolls down my spine. It has nothing to do with the bursts of flavor activating my tastebuds. It’s from recalling why he calls me sweetness. He said I’m the sweetest dessert he’s ever tasted and that he’ll never settle for second best, so dolcezza was the perfect nickname.
I breathe deeply while trying to remember that not every second in Giovanni’s life must be devoted to me. God, he makes it hard. Just his lips on my neck and the heat of his body pressed against mine have my hips naturally gyrating.
With his mouth sucking my skin, marking me, he slides the hand he curled around my waist lower. It suspends briefly at the swell of my midsection—compliments to a three-course meal, not a baby—before it inches even lower.