He glares back at me a second before pulling his phone from his pocket and answering it. “Yeah.”
I start walking again, but not before I hear a woman’s voice shrieking out of the phone.
“Yeah, sounds good. See you in a few.” He jogs to catch up with me. “So, that was Rob. He’s getting some guys together for poker tonight.”
Unless he’s started some serious hormone therapy, there’s no way that was Rob. “Fine.”
“So, I’ll probably just head straight over there.”
“ ’Kay.” I have no clue why I don’t call him on his lie, except that something about the direction we seem to be going scares me, and it’s more than just losing my Broadway in. Maybe if I ignore it, we can just be how we’ve always been.
Because Brett’s safe. And the alternative isn’t.
Chapter Fourteen
I WOKE UP for a sec when Brett rolled out of bed and left for the airport at ass o’clock this morning. The next thing I know, it’s three hours later and Creed’s “My Sacrifice” is blasting out of my phone. I reach for it on the nightstand without opening my eyes—which is stupid, ’cause all I manage to do is knock it onto the pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The clothes muffle Alessandro’s ringtone and I think about letting it go to voice mail, but then he’d probably just call again. Why is he calling at nine freaking o’clock in the morning, when any normal person should still be sleeping? Is he canceling on me? I roll onto my stomach and drag myself to the edge of the bed, scooping it off the mound. I hit connect and lift the phone to my ear. “What?”
“I obviously woke you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I croak. “Are we still on for today, or what?”
“We are,” he says. “But I’m going to need you until four. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Where are we going?”
“You know I’m not going to tell you that, but I will tell you it’s on the Lower East Side, not too far from Club 69.”
“I’ll just bring my work stuff. Eleven, still? At Argo?”
“Yes. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
WHEN I WALK into the Argo Tea with my tiny white Filthy McDermott’s T-shirt and ass shorts in my bag, Alessandro is waiting at a table near the window.
He pushes my cup toward me. “We need to leave in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Aye, Captain,” I say, throwing up a salute.
That gets a smile. “Sorry if I sound like a drill sergeant.”
“Well, you do. You’ve been barking orders at me all morning.” For some reason that comes out sharp, even though I thought I meant it as a joke.
His brows press together. “Are you okay?”
Am I? I feel this antsy, frustrated feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t really know why. “I don’t know.”
“Anything I can help with?”
I haul a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
He bites a corner of his bottom lip. “If it’s about me, Hilary, you know all you have to do is ask and I’ll leave you alone.”
Is it him? Or is it everything else? Honestly, when I’m with him is the only time this feeling seems to go away. “I’ll let you know.”
His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Your boyfriend was home this week?”
I nod and sip my tea so I don’t have to look at him, because, at his words, the frustrated knot in my stomach contracts painfully.
“How was your visit?”
My eyes slip to him and his gaze is intense, like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “Fine. It was fine.”
He nods slowly and I’m not sure whether the expression that slips over his face in that second is relief or chagrin.
I finish my tea and stand, needing to move. “Lead the way, Captain.”
FORTY MINUTES LATER, we climb out of the subway onto Grand Street, and I can’t help but flash back to the last time we were here, after Club 69. I remember how mad I was at him then . . . at everything really, and I realize how much that anger has melted away in the month since then. Is that my problem? My anger fueled me, kept me strong. Am I losing my edge?
Or was my anger just a crutch—a way of keeping people at arm’s length so no one would ever know how broken I am?
He guides me down Grand Street with a hand on my back. “I never told you how impressed I was with your composure that night,” he says as if he was hanging out in my head, a casual observer of my thoughts.
I bark out a laugh. “Because a couple of kids thought I was a hooker? I looked like a whore.”
“You looked stunning.” His voice is low and thick, tightening all the muscles below my waist.
I remember wanting him to want me that night. It was a totally ridiculous plan, but I wanted to punish him and I didn’t know how else to do it. Now I’m not sure what I want to do with him. Because I also remember feeling that same tightening in my groin then and thinking I might actually follow through.
Would I? If Alessandro made a move, showed interest, would I sleep with him again? I know I told myself I wouldn’t, but . . . I really don’t know. My heart simultaneously pounds and aches with the thought.
All that tingling . . . that’s just sex. That’s me getting hot for a really hot guy. That doesn’t mean anything. But this . . . this feels like it’s turning into something else. Something that I promised myself I wouldn’t feel ever again—especially for him.
Because last time it nearly killed me.
“Almost there,” he says, his fingers gliding up from my low back, following the trail of butterflies that he can’t possibly see under my clothes, as if he’s memorized it. As we cross Ludlow, just a block from where those kids jumped me, he wraps his arm over my shoulders.
“I’m really fine, Alessandro.”
“I know,” he says, tightening his arm on me.
He slows near the bus stop just across Essex, and I think maybe this has all been some big diversion and we’re getting on a bus to go somewhere totally different, but then he turns and opens the door next to us and the appetizing scents of yeast and oregano waft out.
“What is this?”
He gestures up at the red awning over the door with a secret smile.
I look up. Pizza for the Masses, it says. Divulging family secrets since 1999.
“Pizza for the masses?” I squint a question at Alessandro.
“They will teach us to make the perfect pizza from the ground up.” He sweeps a hand toward the door, which he’s still holding open.
I step through . . . and God it smells good.
He comes up behind me and slips off my jacket, hanging it on a coat tree there, then lays his hands on my hips, his breath in my hair as he says, “You said you like to cook, and I know you like pizza, so I thought . . .” His lips just brush my ear as he trails off. I rub my arms to disguise my shudder.
A pretty woman with dark hair, wearing a black T-shirt and black apron, comes out of the back. “Are you here for the class?”
“Yes,” Alessandro says, stepping away from me and pulling a folded paper from his back pocket, handing it to her. “We’re on your list. Alessandro Moretti.”
She unfolds the paper and looks it over. “There are two of you?”
Alessandro nods. “Yes.”
She smiles up at us. “The class will be starting soon. Follow me.”
We follow her back to a large, cheery pizza kitchen. In the middle of the room is a long wooden table with a wide metal shelf smack in the middle that runs down the entire length. On the shelf are squeeze bottles with what looks like olive oil, rolls of paper towels, shaker jars with Parmesan cheese and crushed red peppers, wooden spoons, spatulas, and other various utensils. Six grinning people in red aprons are already gathered on either side of the table, talking among themselves. On the back wall are ovens and a large stainless-steel refrigerator, and the walls are cluttered with pizza paddles, spice racks, and shelves of pizza boxes.