Page 40 of Caesar DeLuca
I really want to know…
I step toward her, grabbing at her hands to pull her closer. She tries to ward me off ’til we’re entwined in a playful struggle. My arms wrap around her, and she laughs, trying to wiggle her way out.
“Okay, I’ll tell you!”
We wind up on top of each other. Me hanging above. Ariana trapped underneath. Neither of us can look away, staring into equally tempted eyes.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me, Ariana.”
“Smart. Interesting. Genuine.”
My head slants to the side out of instant curiosity. “Those are unexpected choices. I was thinking you’d say the usual.”
“Tall, dark, and handsome?” she snickers.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Those are nice too. But I care more about my man being genuine than how tall he is.”
“Genuine, like how?” I straighten up to allow her to do the same.
She does, sitting up the rest of the way. “I want him to be real. I don’t want him to be one man initially and then change into somebody else. If I knew my ex wasn’t the loving man he pretended to be… it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
“Freddie?”
She nods.
I suppress the urge to track this Freddie down and throw him off the roof of a very tall building. Once I return to Atlantic City, I just might.
“And what about the other two things?” I ask. “Smart?”
“I like a man who’s an intellectual. I’ve always imagined snuggling in the evening with my husband as we each read a book.”
The imagery she’s painted with a few simple words has me realizing that sounds like a pretty good evening. As the image forms in my head, we’re materializing just like she described. A couple cozy for the evening, engrossed in books, wrapped up in each other.
“And the last one?” I say, my heart thumping faster.
“Someone interesting so we’re never bored of each other. I’ve always imagined having the best conversations of my life with my husband.”
“It’s a good list.”
I’m acutely aware of how rigid I’ve become. I’ve gone from teasing her to serious and contemplative. Being the overthinker that I am, I’m already stacking myself up against Ariana’s perfect man. How do I fare? Do I meet her list?
…why the hell am I thinking about it in the first place?
“Your turn,” Ariana says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Tell me about your perfect wife. You said you’re particular. Let me guess… she’s, like, a runway model from a tropical foreign country, willing and waiting to pop out your little mafia babies.”
“A runway model? Really?”
“You really expect me to believe you’re not into models?”
“Models are fine. Some are beautiful. But you really think a runway model would be enough for me?” I ask, letting my hand roam up her thigh. I’m tempted to do so much more, peering into her eyes. “Let me tell you something, Ariana. I have always liked a woman who could keep my hands full.”
Her breathing slows as my hand reaches the top of her thigh, and we find ourselves so close, we’re an inch apart.
“You want to know my type of woman, Ariana?” I ask, leaning even closer, swiping my tongue at her bottom lip. “If you want to see my type, take a look in the mirror.”
Understanding dawns on her face and lights up her eyes. She’s searching for the same restraint I’m barely holding onto. The ability to resist the magnetic pull between us.
