Page 122 of The Holiday Hate-Off
He raises his eyebrows. “Calling it the Italian Stallion is romantic?”
“That’s what people used to call Sylvester Stallone. My mom had a huge crush on him back in the day.”
He laughs. “Do you know why they called him that?”
“Because he’s an attractive Italian guy. Isn’t it obvious?”
His perfect eyebrows wing higher, and I trace the lines of them before I can stop myself.
The smile on his face says he’s pretty pleased with himself, but I don’t regret it. I don’t regret last night either. Or Sunday morning.
But you might regret it, a voice in my head whispers.You might regret all of it.
“Would you like me to be the one who tells you?” he asks. “Or would you prefer to be embarrassed by your search engine?”
“What are you talking about?” I scoff.
“The name’s from a porno he starred in.”
“No, it’s not. You’re messing with me.”
He shrugs. “If you want to name our cappuccino after a porno, I’m all for it. Then even the people who don’t read Lady Lovewatch will know exactly how it is between us.”
I give him another shove, and he wraps his arm around me.
I don’t try to remove it, because I’m too busy laughing. “You’re saying my mom watched a porno with Sylvester Stallone in it?”
“I’m guessing she did, yes. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
I sink back into his arm, wanting more of his warmth. “Actually, I’m kind of glad to hear that. I hope she had fun. I hope she had all the experiences she wanted to have while she could still have them.”
He looks down at me, his eyes warm and appreciative, and I feel a pulse of such powerful longing in my heart that it almost makes me gasp.
“She was lucky to have you,” he says, running his fingers across my cheekbone.
“We were lucky to have each other.”
He nods. “Of course. I feel the same way about my grandmother. I know I said this earlier, but I’m glad the two of you get along. It means a lot to me.”
“She still terrifies me.”
A smile crosses his face. “She terrifies me too.”
We rock for a moment, his arm still wrapped around me, and the moment is so pleasant, so purely enjoyable it feels stolen.
“You lived in Asheville before,” he says after a while. “I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful little city.”
I don’t ask how he knows where I’m from. Probably the same way I found out about his mother.
“I couldn’t stay,” I say, my throat tight. “Everything back home reminded me of losing my mom.”
“I remember what you said about her illness the other night,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s been tough. I’m sure it sounds stupid, but one of the hardest parts is living alone. I never have before. I keep waking up at night to check on her, only to remember that I’m by myself. There’s no one to check on, no one to talk to. Just me. That’s why I wanted a cat.” I shrug, trying to act like it’s no big deal. Like the cavernous emptiness of the apartment doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing me in every time I walk in. Those letters from my neighbor have helped. There was one waiting for me when I stopped by the apartment earlier, but I haven’t opened it yet. A part of me didn’t want to. I’ve been picking at that feeling for the last several hours, trying to understand it, but it’s only now, sitting next to Enzo, that I really get it.
I’m not afraid my neighbor’s a geriatric old man; I’m afraid he’s not. I’m afraid he’ll be everything my mother wanted for me in a man—because I’d rather see where this goes with Enzo than pursue Mr. Perfect.
Enzo shocks me by weaving his fingers through mine. “You’re not alone, Lucia. Eileen would do anything for you, and so would your friend, Charlie. She threatened me with physical harm if anything happened to you the other night.”
