Page 19 of Bingeworthy
I stare at him. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“Rocco, I was barely scraping by. There’s no guarantee that money will last long enough for me to find another job that pays better,” I explain.
Rocco pulls me toward him and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Sweetheart. You’re adorable.”
My rapid blinking in confusion makes him laugh. “What’s all the mirth about?”
“Take the job with your mom’s company. Or let your dad find you a job. Better yet, let me help you find something to do that you like.”
“But, nepotism…” I say weakly.
“Fuck it,” Rocco says. “Move in with me and do nothing, if that’s what makes you happy. It’s time to accept help when you’re offered it.”
“Rocco…”
“If you think I’m going to let my girlfriend survive on ramen noodles while working for a boss that behaves that way, you’re sorely mistaken.”
The stare-down that follows doesn’t last long. “So I’m supposed to do what? Be your sugar baby?”
He laughs. Those big hands grip the blanket, pulling me close. “What you’re supposed to do,” he says, kissing my lips tenderly, “…is be my future.”
I close my eyes and accept his claiming kiss, sealing me to him.
We return to the party as Dad and Mom are wrapping up a duet from Phantom of the Opera. It’s so cheesy, it’s wonderful.
“I can’t believe what I’ve been missing,” Rocco says in my ear as we cuddle on the deck.
I turn to catch his lips in a soft kiss. “Not anymore. You’re stuck with this family for good. I hope you know that.”
“You might change your mind once you hear me sing,” he says.
Moments later, I sit in shocked awe as Rocco sings every word of the love song from The Lion King. Elizabeth jumps to her feet to sing along, elated at this dark horse in the running.
Too bad his singing is dreadfully off-key.
And yet, in the end, he wins the shiny, gold trophy in a landslide.
“You were playing hardball, picking a song that the kids would like,” I tease him later, after the crowd disperses.
“I always play for keeps. Come on.” He holds the back door open.
Everyone else has headed out to the bonfire for s’mores, and it’s just Rocco and me in the kitchen.
I watch as he opens the fridge and pulls out a leftover container, then grabs two forks.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He slides the container over to me as I sit at the breakfast nook, my mouth agape. “You saved me pumpkin pie? How?”
Rocco laughs and sits down across from me, taking one of the forks. “It wasn’t easy. Your family is serious about this pie.”
It’s as delicious as always.
“Oh,” he says. “I almost forgot.”
Rocco goes back to the fridge and returns with the spray can of whipped topping.
