Page 17 of Scorching Sienna

My head darts to the side as Stacey enters the area from the staff. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees me sitting there.

“Stacey. Bring us a bottle of Rosé Dom Pérignon,” Marcello says, not looking at Stacey as he speaks.

Geezus. That’s expensive champagne. I know. With one sitting behind the online inventory system, I knew all the prices of everything.

“And three glasses.” Shit. My eyes dart from Marcello’s to Damon, his lack of interference in this situation disturbing.

“I’m still on duty.” I try to sound cheerful, looking between the two men. But the smile I give to accompany the statement is strained.

My heart beats frantically, and Damon's eyes briefly dip to my neck. The vein there is probably giving me away. He is too astute.

“Not right now.” Damon takes the tray I am still grasping, even as I have sat down, and places it on the table next to us.

I meet her gaze, and something on my face must display my distress as she gives me a comforting smile, her brow dipping down in a look that says, ‘Good luck.’

She places three glasses on the table and then pops the cork on the bottle before pouring each of us a glass. Then she disappears, her retreating figure like a disappearing lifeline.

“Sienna.” My head snaps back, my gaze meeting Marcello’s as he raises his glass.

I look at Damon, who has lifted his glass, his eyes assessing my every move.

I gingerly pick up my glass and look again at Marcello, his glass poised to clink with mine.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask, my glass hovering in the air.

My question brings a smile to the older man's face.

“We are celebrating your employment here. And the start of something that I never thought would ever happen.” His eyes meet withDamon's as he says the last words. A meaning I am not privy to. The only indication of any impact is the slight twitch of Damon's jaw before he clinks his glass with mine.

The champagne bubbles fizzle against my lip as I take a sip. The taste is so out of this world that I smile.

“You like it?” Marcello asks me, topping my glass until it is near the brim.

“Yes, thank you. It’s decadent.”

“It is decadent, isn’t it?” Marcello looks at Damon, smiling as he leans back in his chair. It's like they had a secret I am not part of.

“You know, when I met my Maria, she was about your age. Innocent and sweet. You remind me of her.” Marcello shows the first big, genuine smile I have seen on his face since working here. But there is also a bittersweet tinge that I recognize. It is the same way I speak about James.

“I’m sure I would have loved her. Did you have any children together?” Marcello looks surprised but recovers quickly, leaning further back in his chair, pulling out a large cigar and proceeding to snip the tip and light it as he talks. The motion is so practiced it all happens quickly before a puff of smoke fills the air.

“We tried, but after her third miscarriage, we stopped. I have a son with my second wife, Lucy. Alessandro. You will meet him when he returns from his business trip next week.” How he spoke his second wife’s name compared to his first made me think his first wife was his great love.

Something that both saddened me and made me happy. Guilt warring with hope. I was glad James was my great love, but would he be my only love?

The conversation continues, with little input from Damon besides the occasional grunt. That, however, doesn’t lessen his contributionto this situation. Unlike a wallflower that disappears quietly into the background, Damon’s presence just inches away is utterly deafening.

It consumes me. Being this close to him for this long as alcohol sweeps through my system must be what a candle feels like. I am the wax, and he is the flame. He is also the darkness at the end when the wick finally runs out.

Every shift in his seat. Every movement of his hand. Every facial expression. I cannot help myself. I am addicted.

“How long have you two known each other?” My finger points from Marcello to Damon, my eyes following the same path. The alcohol has made me brave, and I figure Marcello might be a good source of information regarding the mystery that is Damon.

“Too long. We met fifteen years ago when he was a male entertainer. Before he became what he is today.” The shock at Marcello's words can’t be contained, an ‘oh’ leaving my mouth as I imagine Damon on stage. Daddy Damon.

A shiver runs down my spine, and a throb settles in my core as images of Damon removing his clothes piece by piece run amuck in my mind. Dirty mind, I scold, realizing I have zoned out of the conversation and missed what was just said.

Marcello's phone rings, and he gets up, answering before telling whoever is on the other side to hold.

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