Page 14 of Beauty and the Boss

“He’s here, as in here, in this restaurant?” she asks, trying to establish the facts for herself as she puts her knife and fork down.

I nod vigorously, clutching her hand. “In the staff area. What should I do?”

She looks over my shoulder towards the rear of the restaurant, her brows knitted together as she considers her response. If she says we should just leave, I’d be tempted. I’ve tortured myself over this man for the past five years and I need to leave him in the past. On the other hand, this might finally be my chance to find the closure I crave.

On my wavelength as usual, Connie says, “You need to go back there and find out for sure, Cece. No more wondering or speculating or fantasizing. You’ve been in limbo long enough.” She punctuates her answer with a brisk nod, freeing her hand to wave me off.

“Now?!” I ask in surprise. I thought we’d at least debate it for a while, give me time to drink some more Dutch courage.

“Now,” she states. “I’m right here if you need me.”

I lick my lips and blow out a shaky breath before stepping back out of the booth, my food untouched. I can’t face eating a single mouthful anyway.

I retrace my steps to the back of the restaurant, Connie’s gaze accompanying me the whole way. I walk through the archway of the corridor I exited only minutes earlier and turn right to again face the door marked Staff Only. Before I can talk myself out of it, I raise my hand and knock.

A few seconds later the door is opened halfway by the barman who smiled at me before. He does so again, resting his left arm above him against the door edge in a casual stance.

“Hey, can I help you?” he asks. Behind him I can see two more doors. One is ajar and the dark interior looks like a storeroom, and the other is closed and marked Private.

I look up into his open, pleasant face and ask the question I never thought I would be asking today. “Can I speak to Michael please? Michael Luciano?”

“Yeah, sure,” he confirms easily, and I feel my stomach flip-flop as he turns to knock on the closed door behind him. “Hey, boss,” he says through the wood. “Lady here to see you.” He winks as he steps past me, heading back to the bar.

I barely even contemplate what might or might not happen when Michael opens the inner door because before I know it, it is happening. As we lock eyes, I am sure our mutual surprise causes a shockwave that stops time and sound and motion around us.

“Cecelia,” he says, his perfect lips parting. I immediately want to kiss them.

Hearing my name from his mouth instantaneously floods me with every emotion I have ever felt about him. Feelings of love and desire and gratitude and confusion and frustration and grief that have been buried deep within me for five long years, feelings so intense they would have overwhelmed me if I had set them free. But now my personal Pandora’s Box is wide open, and my knees buckle under the weight of its unearthed contents. I feel myself collapsing, a tower block demolished by an explosion within, but before I fall, he reaches out his strong arms and catches me.

When I open my eyes again, I’m not sure if I’m still dreaming as the concerned face looking down at me belongs to Michael Luciano. Momentarily, I’m confused, it is Michael, but he looks different, older. His stubble is now a slightly thicker beard, his dark eyes are more wary and guarded, and his short dark brown hair is less slick, more tousled. Regardless of the time markers, he’s still the most handsome man I have ever seen, and his mere presence is intoxicating.

“How are you feeling?” he asks with mix of concern and affection, still.

I become aware that I am lying on a leather couch in a smart, windowless office. I sit up quickly and as I do, my head spins and I put a palm to my forehead to steady myself.

He kneels next to me, passing me a glass of water from the low table in front of the couch. “Here, drink this,” he says. “It’ll help.”

I do as he says, glugging greedily in an attempt to recalibrate myself. Is this really happening? I think as I place the glass back down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand like Micah does when he drinks his milk. Thinking of Micah results in another stomach somersault and it takes everything I have to stem the urge to sob.

“Where have you been?” I ask abruptly, getting straight to the point and asking the one question I so desperately want to know the answer to.

He sighs heavily, getting up and moving over to his desk. He perches on the edge, arms crossed, looking down at the floor. His presence fills the room and suffocates me. He looks more muscular than I remember, and I can see a scar on his neck, emerging above the collar of his black shirt. I remember kissing him there, that night in Naples. The once delicious memory is suddenly so painful it angers me.

“I’m waiting for an answer, I deserve that much, Michael!” I cry, sitting forward, the liquifying relief of seeing him alive already hardening into fury.

“I’m sorry, Cecelia, I had to go away.”

“Away?” I repeat, shaking my head at the vagueness of his answer. “Where to? Why didn’t you contact me? When did you come to Sicily? Do you live here now?” I fire the questions at him like bullets, wanting him to feel their force, but he’s clearly wearing enough armor to deflect them.

“Just away,” he says, standing and putting his hands in his pockets, making it clear he’s not going to elaborate or offer specifics. Despite my inner turmoil, I can’t help but appreciate his form. Wherever he’s been living, whatever he’s been doing, whoever he’s been with, he looks all the better for it. I already feel a simmering jealousy that I wasn’t one of the whoevers who got to witness his evolution into the even more improved man I see before me. That Micah has missed out on seeing him too turns the jealousy inside me into a lava-like rage.

“That’s not good enough!” I say, the tears coming now. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation? I tried to find you, but it was impossible. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead!” I fling myself at him, fists pounding against his muscled chest.

Without removing his hands from his pockets, he withstands my show of temper easily and simply shrugs. I stare up at his beautiful face, distorted through my watery vision, desperate for words of comfort, but none come. However, his expression is so forlorn, so utterly sorrowful that my bandaged heart breaks all over again.

“Was I nothing to you?” I whisper.

He clenches his jaw and looks down at me through long, dark lashes. I want to believe he’s just so surprised to see me that words escape him, but he’s had years to imagine this reunion, to consider what to say, as have I. And this is not how I was hoping it would go.

---