Page 90 of Morally Black Betrothal
“But what about your clothes?” I pointed to an ugly wardrobe on the other side of the room that was missing strips of its veneer. “Your stylist will help you prep for events, but everyone has their favorites. What else do you want to bring?”
“I-I—” Her face fell a bit more with every stutter.
Every bit of her distress pulled me back to her like a leash.
“Hey.” I found myself back in front of her, taking her shoulders with my hands and urging her to look at me. “Angel. What’s wrong?”
Her blue eyes glimmered with something suspiciously akin to unshed tears. “I just…this morning, when she was going through my things, it occurred to me just howwrongI am for this. Everything I own is secondhand or hand-mended or a decade out of style. And you look like…”
“A penguin,” I completed.
For that, I got one half of that gorgeous smile. “You don’t look like a penguin.”
“An emperor, do you think? Or just one of those puny Chilean ones?”
She rolled her eyes. But a dimple appeared. I wanted to bite it. “Emperor, definitely. They look like they are dressed in…would Armani fit?”
“Let’s say Brioni. Bespoke.”
“I don’t even know what that means.” She looked down at her dress, and the dimple disappeared. “This was my mom’s dress. It’s the nicest thing I have, and it’s probably forty years old. I think she got it on sale at Filene’s Basement, back when it was still around.” The doubt in her eyes about broke my heart.“Brendan, look at you, and then look at me. How are we going to pull this off? Really?”
I pulled her close enough that her chest brushed against mine. One of my hands slipped up her neck so I could cup her cheek. “Baby, all you have to do is smile. You’ll melt every person’s heart like you’re starting to melt mine.”
She stared up at me. “I’m melting w-what?”
I pretended that comment hadn’t slipped out. “They say money doesn’t buy taste. I’ll let you in on a secret: it doesn’t buy class either, and, angel, you’ve got that in spades. We’ll get you the right armor, but the rest? It’s why I knew you’d be perfect for this.”
Once again, her gaze drifted to my mouth—this time, I definitely saw it. But she didn’t move any closer, and for the first time in my life, I was too concerned with making another person feel better to care about what I wanted.
I released her, and she pressed a hand to her chest for a moment before picking up a purse on the counter, then taking the handle of her suitcase. “Then that’s that. The rest of my things stay with my sister and her kid.”
I frowned. “You’re sure?”
She smiled, and this one reminded me of the sun in midafternoon. Warm and comfortable. “You say I’m enough? I trust you.”
I wanted to tell her she was more than enough. I wanted to say she was more than any man could hope for.
Instead, I followed her out of the apartment and waited while she locked up, then carried her bag down the stairs for her.
“We’re going to the place I chose first, right?” she asked as we walked out to the Aston waiting at the curb.
“Of course. Where are you taking me?”
That bashful, stupidly endearing expression crossed her face again just before she slid inside the car. “To my favorite bakery.”
21
VI’S
Brendan
Thirty minutes later, my driver steered the Aston over the cobblestones of Hanover Street. The North End was the oldest continuously inhabited part of Boston, a neighborhood that had been reinventing itself every hundred years or so as a new wave of residents displaced the previous generations. A hundred years ago, the area was home to a substantial Italian population. Now, it was still called Little Italy, but the Italian storefronts were nestled between thirty-dollar-a-plate brunch spots and renovated apartment buildings—many of which were owned by Blackguard.
I pointed out a few as we passed, but Simone’s reactions were minimal.
“Not impressed?” I had to wonder.
Most people had the decency to at least fake it.
