Page 16 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
I look away and his warm gaze caresses the side of my face.
“It’s going to be a big wedding.Lots of Italians.” I turn to catch him eyeing me thoughtfully. “Where are you from?”
He pans his gaze out across the terrace and shrugs. “I was born in New York. Brooklyn.”
“And your brother is still in the state?”
His gaze feels loaded. “Yes, he is.”
I bite my lip again, terrified of asking the one question I really want to know the answer to. “Are you married?”
His features lighten and his lips part in a soft laugh. “No.” He holds up his left hand, flashing it back and forth. “I’m definitely not married.”
He turns his head to look out toward the ocean. I follow his gaze but when I turn back around, he’s watching me out the corner of his eye, a devious smile cresting the curve of his mouth.
“Are you?”
The question stuns me so hard I laugh out loud. Me? Married? Is he insane? I’m having a tough enough time trying to understand why this man enjoys my company, let alone entertain the idea some man would want to marry me.
He frowns deeply. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, swallowing the urge to continue laughing. “I’m not married either. Definitely not married.”
“Boyfriend?”
Is this guy for real?
“Nope. I don’t have one of those either.”
“Why?” He sounds incredulous.
“Um…” The look in his eye has thrown me for a loop and he looks kind of pissed. “I’ve been really busy with this internship, I guess,” I offer, quietly.
“But you say it like the idea of having a boyfriend is hard for you to imagine.”
“Well,” I start, “it is. I mean, I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’m not really girlfriend material.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m not skinny, or tan, or blond. I’m the opposite of those things.”
His tone cuts like a knife. “What’s so great about being skinny, tan and blond?”
It’s a good question and one I don’t have an answer for.
“Do you always talk down on yourself like this?”
The brevity of his second question stuns me further and I can’t think of a single thing to say.
Slowly, he uncrosses his legs and leans over the table toward me. I sit back a little, afraid to be in such close proximity.
“Are you looking forward to the wedding?” he asks softly.
“I am.” I’m relieved for the change in topic. “I can’t wait.”
He toys with the cutlery the waiter brought over. “How many guests will there be?”
I know the exact number because I’ve been managing the preparations. “Hundred and fifty.”
