Page 120 of The Killer Cupcake
“You don’t know if you speak my language?” Nicolas asked.
She blushed. “Growing up, I just knew it sometimes. Spoke it sometimes. It’s a running joke. I was teasing. I knew what“Prego” means, and I am familiar with some other words. It just comes from nowhere, I guess.”
“I doubt that. I think it comes from some place special,” he replied.
She glanced away. “Do you live here?"
"We all do now. Family,” he said. The word 'family' rolled off his tongue like ownership instead of belonging. The comment drew her gaze back to his.
She sampled the drink cautiously. "Why do you keep staring at me?"
“Do I stare?” he asked, as if shocked.
“You stared at the funeral for Mama. You stared across from the bakery. You stared at the weird wedding at the graveyard. You stare a lot,” Sandy commented.
"You're beautiful. You look like Aunt Kathy at her age."
The comparison chilled her. The hurt over the loss of her mother was too raw for the compliment. “You never saw my mother at my age,” she countered.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to make it weird—I just?—”
“It’s okay,” Sandy said.
He nodded, but didn’t explain further.
His bakery visit surfaced in fragments thanks to that cultured voice, words wrapped in silk. But the actual conversation? Gone, like so many memories lately. She struggled to surface it to keep the conversation flowing. D.C. had been the same. Lucky for her, she lived in a dorm with roommates who had their own special needs.
"How's it going?" he asked when the silence went too long.
"How's what going?" she answered.
"Your research. The diaries." Impatience leaked through his charm. "Any new revelations?"
The pieces snapped together. He'd wanted information, needed intel from those pages. She'd just finished her mother'stime in New Orleans and then the subsequent war of Harlem that eventually killed her uncle and sent the Penny Man into the military—pages filled with nothing but contradictions of the man who was her true father, Carmelo Ricci.
"Nothing,” she said.
His disappointment softened his features. It was as if he stepped closer without moving. She just felt him reaching for her without words or touch as his inspection of her turned deliberate, possessive. "Let me show you around. Privately. I won’t hurt you, Sandy.”
“How about you fuck off instead.” Junior appeared like a guardian angel, drinks in hand—when had she asked for one?
Nicolas kept his focus on Sandy. “I don’t fuck off in my own house, cousin. You're free to leave."
Sandy watched them both, embarrassed.
“Nah, I’ll stay and crack your fucking jaw,” Junior's voice dropped low, deadly.
"Junior, stop!" Sandy gasped.
The party's attention shifted, men straightening like soldiers sensing conflict. Nicolas finally graced Junior with his attention, utterly unmoved.
“Take your best shot, hero,” said Nicolas.
"Nicolas, thank you, but I should stay with my cousin."
The staring contest stretched until Nicolas offered a mocking bow, turned, and walked away as casually as he had appeared.
"What is wrong with you?" Sandy demanded.
