Page 13 of Cowboy Devil's Embrace

I didn’t grow up poor, but we weren’t rich either. I was the granddaughter of Mario Abruzzi, who once ran the famous Mario’s Bake Shop over on Spring Street in Little Italy over in New York City.

My father didn’t take after his, instead, he moved to the suburbs and had a small but successful car dealership for a little while. Mom was the baker in our house.

I only met Grandpa Mario once, years ago. I remember he was kind and smelled sweet, like almond paste and raspberries. Dad always said I took after him. But I liked to think it was my mom I took after.

Oh Mom, I should have listened to you.

She never liked Burt. Anyway, both my parents had retired a while back. They’d lived the last few years of their lives in a retirement community in Pompano Beach.

They passed last year within a week of each other, and now that the ink on my divorce was dry, it was official.

I was the last Abruzzi.

There was no one left.

I was utterly and completely alone.

“Um, hello? Best friend here,” Avery scoffed.

Shit. I must have said all that aloud.

“Yeah, and you’re still doing it, Pretty Penny. Now, what did Dirtbag want?”

“Oh, the usual. Just every bit of my money and my sanity,” I mumbled.

I nodded for Avery to don a chef’s coat and cap before she sat down in the commercial kitchen.

My bestie did it without complaint, knowing the drill well.

Avery worked as a nurse for the Dry Creek Elementary School here in town, which was just a couple of streets over.

Pretty convenient for these littletête-à-têtes.

Her daughter, Rosalie, attended school there. My honorary niece was just six years old, and every bit as sweet as her name. Her father was on the Northeastern rodeo circuit and had been MIA for five years now.

That loser had skipped town before Rosie could walk. It was likely better for them both, only now, I’d say he owed about a bazillion dollars in child support.

Rosalie deserved better from that man, but what she missed in a father she made up for in a mom and me, her Aunt Penny.

That was another thing I would never have now. Children of my own. Pain from acknowledging that lack was so great sometimes, I swore I could feel it way down deep inside my heart.

Like this enormous vacuum existed inside of me because of it. Sometimes, when I was alone, I wept for the mother I would never become.

Fuck you, Burt.

Betrayal was never an easy thing to face. But I had no choice. He didn’t tell me he didn’t want kids until after we were married for over a year.

At first, I thought it was because of med school and me working three jobs to make ends meet. But later, he said he just didn’t want them. I was shocked, of course. And now, well, now I was getting older, and my prospects were slim.

Sure, I could try a sperm bank. But I didn’t just want children.

I wanted a family.

A husband who loved me and would be a good dad.

Like mine was.

Shit.

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