Page 3 of Mine to Love
“You are too kind, Mr. More?—"
“Gio, just Gio,” I say, interrupting her. “And only to those who deserve my kindness.”
“What makes you think I deserve it?”
“What makes you think you don’t?”
3
I’m lostfor words as the man before me waits for my response. It’s been three weeks since I left Clive. Three weeks and Gio is the first person to show us any genuine kindness. Though, as I find the courage to look closer at him, I wonder what motive lies behind his almond-shaped amber eyes, his soft, half-drawn smile, and perfectly tailored suit.
His black hair is expertly trimmed around the edges and is long enough on top to be unkempt and yet isn’t. There isn’t a single hair out of place. Similarly, his face is clear and groomed, save for a wrinkle across his forehead and a five o’clock shadow. He is perfectly polished while I stand in stark contrast, sweaty and disheveled, wearing a wrinkled milkmaid-style sundress that hasn’t been washed in weeks. And, if his manicured appearance isn’t enough to give it away, the mention of a Black Card tells me he’s rich.
What could a man like him possibly see in me, want from me? What kind of job? Only one thing comes to mind, and it isn’t good. As the thought comes to me, I press my lips together in defeat and lower my tear-filled gaze to the floor.
For a moment, just one, I felt the tension release. But now, it weighs on me heavier than ever. Clive may not have found us yet and perhaps he never will. But, with the Mississippi River a few blocks away, we’ve literally run out of places to go. And we hardly have enough money left for two Little Debbie snacks. I’m running out of options, which meansweare running out of options.
As I look at Delilah perched on the stool, my arm wrapped tightly around her, I notice the tangles in her light, blonde hair and catch a whiff of the musty smell that’s followed us since our first week on the road. Perhaps this is why finding a job has been so difficult. Not her, butusand our obvious challenges. We wear them like we wear our dirty clothes, despite my extra efforts to appear presentable today. Even my best dress, the same one I was wearing when we left Montana, and several dabs of my homemade perfume are not enough to hide the truth—we are complicated, ragged, stinky and…and hopeless.
I can’t help but draw comparisons between my situation now and when I met Clive. My mother died in a car accident when I was young. I hardly have any memories of her. And when my father passed from cancer when I was eighteen, I found myself as I do now—broke and alone. Clive swooped in like a savior, just as Gio—Mr. Moretti—is now. But, unlike then, I have a daughter. And, unlike then, I’m wiser. I won’t fall for a nice smile or a handsome face. I won’t be suckered in by kindness carrying an expiration date. Of all the things I can’t afford, more than anything, I can’t afford to put myself or Delilah in jeopardy.
Finding my resolve, I look at Mr. Moretti once more, though I am interrupted before I can turn down his dinner invitation. “Here you go, one apple juice and one, Hurricane. Enjoy.”Hurricane, how fitting? The bartender’s tone is a level of polite I didn’t think him capable of. “And, for you, sir, a beer.” He placesthe tall, frosty glass in front of Mr. Moretti, whose eyes don’t leave me, and quickly backs away.
“Oh, you know, Delilah, I don’t think—” Delilah is quick to grab her juice despite my sudden regret at being in Mr. Moretti’s debt. She has the tiny straw between her lips, sucking the plastic cup dry before I can even formulate a sentence. I purse my lips and glance at Gio. His brows furrow and eyes narrow as if he’s trying to read my mind. His expression only makes me more uncomfortable.
It’s then that Delilah places her empty cup back on the counter and says, “Mommy, I’m hungry.” She looks up at me, red-faced with tired eyes the color of the ocean. I inhale deeply and let out a heavy sigh as I caress her cheek with the back of my hand. Not only is she hungry, she’s warm. New Orleans in the last days of August is no joke. Despite my hesitation, her expression tells me I have no choice.
I don’t have to accept the job Mr. Moretti offers, assuming the job offer is real. But a hearty meal and some AC would be good for us. So, despite my fears, I return my gaze to Gio and say, “Dinner would be much appreciated.” He meets my acceptance with a smile.
“Perfect. After you,” he says as he extends his arm, motioning toward the door.
“We’re not eating here?” I ask, brows furrowed.
“Would you like to eat here?”
I turn and find the bartender watching us from afar. The thought of leaving with Mr. Moretti has my stomach in knots. Yet, staying and eating under the watchful gaze of not one, but two men, feels even more nerve-racking. “Not really,” I reply.
Gio nods and kneels to pick up mine and Delilah’s backpacks. “Allow me,” he says, picking both packs up with one hand. I make a mental note of his strength. “The place I have in mind is just a short walk from here.”
Without a word, I nod and pick Delilah up off the stool. She’s done enough walking today. Besides, should things get sketchy on our way to the restaurant, having her in my arms will make it easier to escape.
Before we leave, Gio reaches for his glass and takes a single sip of the light brown, foam-topped beverage. He looks at the bartender then and says, “Look at that. The last drink you will ever serve in this city is a humble beer. How very fitting?”
“What?What are you talking about?” The bartender looks dumbfounded. I suppose I do too.
“You’re fired—effective immediately.” As Mr. Moretti relays the message, a short bald man appears. He curls his finger and motions for the bartender to come with him. Whoever he is, the man recognizes him and shakes his head in defeat. He crosses his arms and looks at Gio, then at me. As he does, Gio shifts his body so that he faces the speechless man head-on. “As I thought,” Gio says as the bartender finally walks away in silence. The interaction fills me with the same sense of gratitude I had before. Yet it amplifies my nervousness. Who is Gio Moretti and what have I gotten myself into?
4
Notably,Darcy walks carefully out of arm’s reach and doesn’t utter a single word the entire way to my restaurant of choice—Broussard’s. I can’t help but wonder about her reason for such caution. I mean, I know I’m not the most smiley of fellows, and there’s a running joke amongst my colleagues that a glass of Chardonnay has more humor. Still, I thought I was friendly to her. Though, perhaps that’s the problem—friendly men. Hmm. Although, something tells me she’s experienced just as fair a share of unfriendly men. When the bartender insulted her, her facial features didn’t change in the slightest. She remained calm, as if she almost expected it. The thought has me clenching my fist. Though, so as not to feed into her worry, I quickly release my grip.
“It’s just up ahead,” I say, as the tan, two-story structure with dark green shutters comes into view. As I glance over my shoulder to make sure she hasn’t fallen too far behind, I’m immediately met with her icy blue gaze. I take it she’s been watching me the entire time. My pace slows as our eyes meet and within seconds, the distance between us is closed. Darcy comes to a sudden stop just as her arm, wrapped tightly aroundher daughter, brushes mine. That brief touch—our first touch—leaves me parched, just like the first moment I saw her. It’s a sensation I’ve never experienced before, an unexplainable, practically instantaneous, desire to know her in every way possible.
While I lick my lips for some relief, she parts hers and lets out a soft gasp. As my gaze drifts lower, tracing the curve of her neck to her collarbone, I find tension constricting her muscles. This interest—whatever its true nature—is one-sided. She’s afraid of me, which means her situation is worse than I originally presumed because she wouldn’t have accepted my invitation otherwise.
I have half a mind to skip this charade of an interview and take her—them—home with me right now. To hell with the job. More than anything, she needs rest. She needs to take off her armor and feel safe. Her body language suggests she hasn’t felt safe in a very long time. But, despite my desire to help her, I doubt abducting her is the way to do it. No, it has to be her choice.
“As I said, it’s just up ahead.”
