Page 60 of Carnal

"Not at all. But I grew up poor. There were times we didn't have food. It took everything I had to build the life I now live. The last thing I'm going to do is waste my hard-earned money gambling," I confess.

Tristano's anger disappears. "I'm sorry."

My pride overpowers my other emotions. "It's fine."

Silence fills the jet, aside from the overhead bins rattling. I try to think of how to change the subject, but nothing comes to me. All I keep thinking about is being a young girl and having nothing.

Tristano breaks the silence. His voice is soft as he states, "I bet that was hard for you."

"It was what it was," I reply.

He strokes his thumb on my thigh, asking, "This is why you're so freaked out about Dante finding out about us. Isn't it?"

My discomfort grows. I hate showing any form of weakness. I try at all costs not to speak about how I grew up. I love my parents, and they worked their asses off to provide for us. It wasn't their fault we had no money. And something about Tristano pinpointing my issue with Dante makes me feel super vulnerable. I spin in the seat as much as I can with the seat belt on. "Can we change the subject?"

He pins his gaze on me, studying me like I'm a specimen under a microscope.

It adds to my nerves. I beg, "Please."

He finally caves. "Okay. So tell me what you did in Vegas if you didn't gamble."

Relieved he's moving on, I answer, "I saw a lot of shows and spent most of the time in the pool. It was nice to feel the sun in winter."

His face lights up, and I'm unsure why. He smiles. "Yeah, it is. I feel like this winter is never going to end."

I groan. "Agreed. It's been the worst."

His grin widens. "So you like sunshine, swimming, and what else?"

My flutters reignite. I've known Tristano for what feels like forever, yet we've never talked like this. It makes me realize how much I don't really know him. Everything about his question feels like a first date, which I know we're on, but I have conflicting feelings.

Where can this go?

What if it could work?

It can't.

Instead of answering, I flip the conversation on him. "Nothing exciting. Besides gambling and boxing, what else do you do?"

His lips twitch. "Why are you dodging my question?"

"I'm not," I lie.

"Bullshit."

My anxiousness grows as it hits me that I've made a huge mistake. I underestimated Tristano. He seems to be able to read me better than Dante. And he can get to the root of issues quickly.

How did I never notice this before?

He laces his fingers through mine, sending zings straight to my core. He asks, "Are you going to avoid my questions all weekend?"

I snap my head toward him, panicking. "All weekend?"

His eyes widen but quickly return to normal. He sniffs hard, assesses me, then asserts, "You won't want to go home tonight. Just trust me."

"You can't say that when you don't even know where we're going," I point out.

The typical Marino cockiness flares on his expression. "Of course I can."

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