She shrugged. “Maybe later, but for now, you can relax and get something to drink from the refrigerator. Or,” she drew in a long breath over the pot of sauce, “open a bottle of wine to celebrate your return.”
Felisa set down her wooden spoon and opened the breadbox on the counter.
“What is it that you’re not telling me?”
“What you really want to know is what she’s not telling you,” she sighed, “and I don’t know what that is either, ‘Berto. She’s convinced that the two of you won’t be happy together.”
“I’m not.” He growled at himself for the slight petulant pinch in his voice. “I am convinced that things can work between us, especially now that I’ve seen what ‘Tore and Valerio have gone through with their mates, what they’ve done to bring them into our lives.”
“And you’re willing to do the same for her?”
“If your sister would sit down and talk to me instead of threatening to make me incapable of fathering cubs with her,” an image of Emiliana’s snapping eyes filled with a mix of passion and murderous intent filled his mind, and made his skin crawl with answering heat, “I think she’d see that the bear who marked her so many years ago is better now. More mature,” he hoped, “but at the very least, I want to talk to her without sparring, either physically or verbally.”
Felisa set the loaf of bread into his hands as she gave him a sympathetic sigh. “You ask a lot, Uberto. If I know one thing about my sister, she’s carried more on her shoulders than anyone else. I can’t even begin to understand what’s in her head.” She handed him a knife and showed him how thick to make the slices before she turned back to open a jar for the antipasti platter. “If you can find a way to get in past those walls she’s always put up, even between us, you’ll have a chance, ‘Berto.”
He set himself at the task of slicing the bread, using the width of his thumb to mark the size. “Do you?” He made the first cut through the bread, carefully cutting through the fresh loaf.
“Do I… what?”
“Think she’ll let me in?”
Felisa tasted her sauce and the smile on her face said she liked what she’d made. She shrugged as she turned off the burner and set aside the spoon. “Who knows? The Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble,” her words took on the melody of the song, “they’re only made of clay-”
He’d forgotten how much Ana’s younger sister loved romantic songs. “Are you saying I should sing to her?”
Her face twisted as if she had a lemon squeezing against her tongue. “Unless you’ve developed musical talents to go with your newfound maturity, I would stick to humming. You want to woo her, not scare her away, ‘Berto.”
“Such sage advice from a little mouse.” He swore he could feel her bore a hole in his back with her eyes.
“Now you have to watch out for both of us,” Felisa’s warning was tempered by her laughter. “When you’re done slicing the bread, wash your hands. I’ll get my sister from the garden. Dinner is ready.”