Page 82 of The Butcher's Wife
If Serafina’d had more driving practice, would she havebeen able to avoid Mikey’s car crashing into hers? I would have arrived home hours after. She only needed to buy herself a little more time.
“Take a deep breath.” Dom rests a hand on my thigh. “You’re doing fine.”
“I haven’t even started moving yet, and I’m about to have a panic attack,” I say in a squeaky voice.
“You’re still trying. That’s something.”
I push his hand off my thigh. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I would never.”
The unexpected sincerity in his voice fills me with a small measure of bravery.
I have to do this. I can do this.
I start to pull out—SCREEECH—and I slam the brakes.
I’m frozen, my hands glued to the steering wheel. My cheeks burn.
I just scraped the SUV against Dom’s truck.
“It’s just a truck,reginetta.” Dom’s eyes float closed. “Aren’t your parents waiting?”
A thrill of attraction courses through me. I adjust the SUV and pull out cleanly this time. My back is ramrod straight, my hands are death-gripping the steering wheel, and my heart is pounding, but I make it to the exit in one piece.
With his eyes seemingly closed, Dom throws me a few tips as I drive.
“Keep an eye on the speed limit.”
“You have to fully stop there.”
“Cop on your left.”
At a red light, I finally throw up my hands in frustration. “How do you see all that? Your eyes are closed!”
He smiles without opening them. “I got eyes on the back of my head.”
I go to smack him, but he catches my hand and kisses my knuckles. I watch him with parted lips and wide eyes. Everything inside me tenses. When will I get used to this? When will he stop making me feel so light with only a touch or a glance?
“Light’s green,” he says, right before the driver behind us honks.
On the way there, he fiddles with the radio, stopping at a pop-rock station, and we both hum along to the songs that pour in while he drums his fingers on the center console, somehow making even this awful experience fun and light-hearted. When I roll to a stop in my parents’ driveway, I give him a grateful smile.
He grins back. “You did amazing. Now let’s go, I’m starving.”
“Are you ever not?”
As we walk up to the front door, I take his hand in mine. He glances down at me with a look of flirty amusement that has butterflies swarming in my belly all over again.
“For my parents,” I say.
His fingers tighten over mine.
The moment we step inside, Mom comes rushing up to greet us. “Domenico! I saved a wholecrostatajust for you!”
Dom laughs and answers my mom smoothly, “Ricotta filling?”
“Of course!”
