Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
It was a dream, goddammit!
A silly, erotic, yet heart-searing dream.
At the end of brunch, Nico joins the celebrations, which seem mainly for couples, since each group sits in its own designated area. Dante, Lucia, and Camille occupy the end of the table, the highest position, Valentina and Giovanni sit to their right, and Matteo and I sit to their left.
“Matteo.” Nico plucks a slice of bacon from Giovanni’s plate, just like Matteo did to him yesterday, then moves to our side of the table. How was that only yesterday? It feels like a lifetime ago. “Can I have a word?”
Jerking his chin up, Matteo pushes back from the table and stands. Before he leaves, he turns to me. “You okay being left alone?”
His chivalry is unexpected but appreciated. I nod. “I’m being beckoned.” When I wiggle my fingers at Camille, agreeing to her offer for us to color together with as many words as she used to ask, she digs her sketchbook out of her backpack and rips me off a clean piece. “I’ll color with Camille until you get back.”
The tautness of his shoulders relaxes a fraction. “Okay. I won’t be long.”
He leans in to press his lips to my forehead but freezes when he notices everyone’s eyes are on us. Then he slaps my shoulder instead.
When he leaves with Nico, Camille tugs on my sleeve before pulling me toward an art table in the corner. Crayons already cover the surface.
We’re halfway through blending the stripper pole in the middle of her drawing when her father translates the numerous facial gestures she’s making at me.
“She wants to know if you like Matteo.” Dante pulls out the closest dining room chair, twists it to face us, then sits on it. “That’s why she keeps striving for your eye contact before she peers in the direction Matteo went.”
My breath catches. “Oh…”
Camille watches me with wide, curious eyes, impatiently awaiting my reply.
I smile softly, then mumble, “He’s… ah… My feelings for him are… complicated.”
She furrows her brows, then shoots her eyes back to her father. He hesitates before translating. “That means Azra knows Uncle Matteo is a grouch, but she’s also aware that sometimes even knights have to be like that to protect themselves.” My teeth catch my lower lip when he reads her with such simplicity that it is awe-inspiring. “Their story is similar to the dragon and the ballerina. Uncle Matteo just needs a little more convincing to fill his belly with water instead of whiskey.”
Camille’s giggles are faint, but I feel privileged to hear them. She leans into Dante’s embrace when he ruffles her hair, before returning her focus to her drawing.
Dante returns to Lucia, who watched their exchange with as much awe as I did. His focus rarely diverts from Camille, but on the rare occasion when he can’t help but gawk at the stunning blonde at his side, Camille’s eyes shift toward a little boy sitting under the buffet table. He’s waiting for his mother to finish clearing away the mess.
She watches him with the shy interest children do when they want to be their friend. It’s innocent and sweet; however, she clearly doesn’t want her father to know.
Is that why she’s so interested in my relationship with Matteo? Is she struggling to understand her feelings, too?
I tilt in close. “Can I tell you a secret?”
With her eyes back on me, Camille nods eagerly.
“My feelings for Matteo are complicated because sometimes it’s hard not knowing if the person you want to be friends with wants to be friends with you too.” I give myself a pat on the back for my PG commentary. I don’t have younger siblings or any nieces or nephews, so this is foreign to me. “Unless you live in Turkey.” With Camille’s attention fully rapt on me, I continue. “In Turkey, tradition dictates that when a girl is arranged to mar… to be best friends with someone, she puts salt in his drink. If he drinks it without complaining, it means he’s someone she can trust.”
Camille’s eyes widen with fascination before her chair’s feet squeak on the floorboards. She races across the dining room, dodging the staff cleaning up, her speed unchecked until she snatches the saltshaker from the main table.
She returns to my side, and I fill a small glass with orange juice and a pinch of salt. “If you really want to test how strong your… friendship will be, place more salt in.”
She giggles with delight when I whack the bottom of the saltshaker, dumping more than a teaspoon of salt into the drink she’ll give the little boy to test his kindness.
When I hand her the bitter concoction for the harmless test most arranged-marriage brides should undertake before they wed, instead of approaching the boy who looks no older than six, she marches straight for Matteo, who recently returned to the dining room.