Page 60 of City of Wind and Lies

Even if it was just a sloppy car hookup, I needed that taste of her, one more time– because after I tell her everything, the possibility of her walking away from me is very real. When Doctor Marino confirmed that the baby was mine, the rush I felt was quickly dampened by the realization that I still need to tell her who the father of her child really is, and risk her walking out on me. The irony isn’t lost on me because it’s usually me doing the walking. But the fear I might lose her is something I’ll have to risk. She deserves my honesty.

The waiter leaves us with menus and I watch as Wren's baby blues widen in wonder, sparkling even brighter as she takes in everything around her. Her fingers trail along the base of a glass lantern in the center of the table, holding a candle surrounded by eucalyptus and red roses inside it.

"Bowie," she breathes. "This place... it's gorgeous!"

"I'm glad you like it," I murmur, my lips tugging into a smile at her approval.

"Honestly, you could have taken me to McDonald's and I'd have been happy," she laughs, opening the menu. Her brows furrow together in contemplation as she starts to peruse it, and I reach across the table and snap the menu shut.

"How many times must I tell you, Passerotta, the mother of my child deserves far better than that." My thumb strokes the back of her hand as her features soften and her lips part. "Did the Doctor call?"

"He did."

"And?"

"It's mine."

"Told you so," she sing-songs, sticking her tongue out at me.

"Wren," my tone hardens. "It's important you know I never doubted you. This was simply a formality for a man in my position."

"I get it," she sighs, suddenly turning serious as she squeezes my hand. "I really do. Even if you'd had your doubts, I wouldn't fault you." Her eyes shine with unshed tears. "But thank you for never treating me like you did." Her throat bobs with a swallow and she fans her face. "Ugh, sorry. These hormones are no joke."

Wren carefully dabs the corner of her napkin at her eyes, trying to not smudge her makeup, I assume. I don't know why she wears that shit in the first place, she's beautiful without it.

She opens her menu again while I move my own aside, reaching for my water glass. What I wouldn't give for this to be whiskey right now. But aside from wanting a completely clear head when I tell her about la famiglia, I'm not gonna be an ass and drink in front of her when she can't.

The more I sit here drowning in my own thoughts, the more time I have to talk myself out of this. But is there any value in delaying things? I've already made the mistake once of pushing her away instead of facing this head on. If she wants nothing to do with me after this… I'll have to accept it. I’ll support her, let her live peacefully out in the burbs… even if it destroys me, I’ll do it for her.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, the waiter suddenly appears to distract me from my circulating thoughts, asking if we're ready to order as he places a basket of fresh bread on the table and tops off our waters. I raise an eyebrow at Wren and she bites down on her lip. "You order first, I'll know what I want by then."

Clearing my throat, I hand the menu over as I order the minestrone. The waiter pivots toward Wren once more and she requests the chicken risotto. With a nod, he takes our menus and disappears. The glass doors are pushed open, the light chatter of those inside filtering out. Aside from another couple on the other end of the balcony, we practically have the place to ourselves.

"So," I start, tracing a finger around the rim of my water glass.

"So," she parrots. Arching a brow, she leans forward and folds her arms on the table. "What's on your mind?"

The action pushes her tits together and triggers the memory of them on display in the car as she thrashed around in frustration, body begging for release. Cazzo, I don't need to be thinking about that right now. I squeeze my thickening cock through my slacks, trying to fend off the chronic hard-on Wren supplies me with.

"You," I answer honestly.

A blush creeps across her creamy skin, a smile splitting her face, and I commit the sight to memory.

"What about you?" I ask, spreading my napkin across my lap.

She quirks a brow. "Your middle name."

"And why's that?"

"It's silly," she sighs as she reaches for a piece of bread and sets it on her plate. "Drea just got in my head about how much we really knew about each other."

The thought that Drea knows my secret sends a wave of heat rushing up my spine. But no, she can't. She'd have threatened me if she did. Drea's just mouthy that way. I quickly push that thought aside and answer her.

"Lorenzo, after my grandfather."

"Aww, that's so sweet. Bowie Lorenzo Sorrentino," she speaks slowly, testing each syllable as she strings them together for the first time.

Cazzo, I like the way that sounds falling from her lips.

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