My mouth dries.
Mate! You are getting way ahead of yourself!
I look away, breaking the spell of Alessia’s stare. I’m troubled by where my thoughts are heading and take a sip of wine. My reaction is all too new and too presumptuous.
“How is Michal? And Logan?” she asks, hungry for news, and she’s soon lost in a lively conversation about packing and Canada—and weddings.
Alessia laughs again, and her voice changes, becoming softer…sweeter. She’s talking to Michal, and I know from her tone that she’s exceptionally fond of him. I shouldn’t be jealous—he’s a kid—but maybe I am? I’m not sure I appreciate this new and unwelcome feeling.
“Be good, Michal….I miss you….Bye.”
She glances at me once more. “Okay. I will….Good-bye, Magda.” She hangs up and wanders back to me to hand me my phone. She looks happy. I’m glad she made the call.
“All good?” I ask.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“And with Magda?”
“She is packing. She’s happy and sad to be leaving England. And she is relieved to have the security man near.”
“Great. She must be excited to start a new life.”
“She is. Her fiancé is a good man.”
“What does he do?”
“Something to do with computers.”
“I should get you a phone, and then you can speak to her when you want.”
She looks appalled. “No. No. That is too much. You cannot do that.”
I raise a brow, knowing full well that I can.
She arches a brow in return, displeased, but I’m saved by the ping of the oven timer.
“Dinner is cooked.”
* * *
Alessia places the casserole dish on the table beside the salad she’s made. She’s pleased that the yogurt crust has risen into a crisp, golden brown dome. Maxim is impressed. “It looks good,” he says, and Alessia suspects he’s being overeffusive.
She serves him a portion and sits down. “It is lamb, rice, and yogurt with a few secret…um…ingredients. We say tavë kosi.”
“We don’t bake our yogurt here. We put it on our muesli.”
She laughs.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes as he savors the food. “Mmm.” He opens his eyes and nods enthusiastically. He swallows. “This is delicious. You weren’t lying when you said you could cook!”
Alessia blushes under his warm gaze.
“You can cook for me anytime.”
“I would like that,” she murmurs. She would like that very much.
* * *
We talk and drink and eat. I ply her with wine and questions. Many questions. About her childhood. School. Friends. Family. Reading about Albania has inspired me. Sitting across from Alessia is inspiring, too; she’s so full of life. Her eyes are shining and expressive as she talks. And she’s animated, using her hands to demonstrate a point.
She’s captivating.
Occasionally she will tuck that stray strand of hair away, her fingers skimming around the shell of her ear.
I’d like her fingers on me.
I anticipate unraveling her plait later and running my fingers through her soft, luscious hair. It’s heartwarming to see her so carefree and talkative for a change. From the sweet flush on her cheeks, I suspect it might be the wine. I take a sip of the tasty Italian Barolo that’s working its magic.
Replete, I push my plate away and refill her glass. “Tell me about a typical day in Albania.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“There is not much to tell. If I am working, my father will drive me to the school. And when I am home, I help my mother. Washing. Cleaning. Like I do for you.” Espresso eyes peek up, unmasking me with her knowing look. It’s sexy as hell. “And that is all I do,” she adds.
“Sounds rather dull.” Too dull for bright Alessia. And I suspect a little lonely.
“It is.” She laughs.
“From what I’ve read, northern Albania is quite conservative.”
“Conservative.” She frowns and takes a quick sip of her wine. “Do you mean traditional?”
“Yes.”
“Where I am from, we are traditional.” She stands to clear the crockery from the table. “But Albania is changing. In Tiranë—”
“Tirana?”
“Yes. It’s a modern city. It is not so traditional or conservative there.” She puts the plates in the sink.
“Have you been?”
“No.”
“Would you like to go?”
She takes her seat once more and tilts her head to the side, brushing her index finger across her lips. Her look is wistful for a brief moment. “Yes. One day.”
“Have you traveled at all?”
“No. Only in books.” Her smile brightens the room. “I have traveled all over the world in books. And I’ve been to America watching TV.”
“American TV?”
“Yes. Netflix. HBO.”
“In Albania?”
She grins at my surprise. “Yes. We have television!”
“So, back home, what did you do for kicks?” I ask.
“Kicks?”
“Fun. You know. Fun.”
She looks a little puzzled. “I read. Watch TV. Practice my music. Sometimes I listen to the radio with my mother. The BBC World Service.”
“Do you go out?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Sometimes. In the summer we will walk in the town in the evening. But it is with my family. And sometimes I play the piano.”
“A recital? For the public?”
“Yes. At the school and weddings.”
“Your parents must be proud.”
A shadow crosses her face. “Yes. They were. Are,” she corrects herself, and her voice falters and dips, becoming soft and sad. “My father, he likes the attention.” Her demeanor changes, and she seems to fold in on herself.
Shit. “You must miss them.”
“My mother. I miss my mother,” she answers quietly, and takes another sip of wine.
Not her dad? I don’t push her on that. Her mood has shifted. I should change the subject, but if she misses her mother so much, perhaps she wants to return. I remember what she told me:
We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kukës is hard for some women. We were betrayed—
Maybe that’s what she wants. To go home. And though I dread what her answer might be, I ask her anyway. “Would you like to go back?”
“Back?”
“Home.”
Her eyes widen with fear. “No. I cannot. I cannot.” Her tone is a hushed, rushed whisper, and the fine hairs on my neck stand on end.
“Why?”
She remains mute, but I want to know. I press her. “Is it because you don’t have a passport?”
“No.”
“Then why? Was it that bad?”
She screws her eyes shut and bows her head as if ashamed. “No,” she whispers. “It’s because…it’s because I am betrothed.”
Chapter Eighteen
My chest constricts as if I’ve been kicked in the solar plexus.
Betrothed?
What medieval claptrap is this?
S
he looks up at me. Her eyes wide, exposing her distress. Adrenaline pumps through my body; I’m ready for a fight. “Betrothed?” I whisper, knowing full well what it means.
She’s fucking promised to another.
She bows her head again. “Yes.” Her voice is barely audible.
I have a rival. Shit.
“And you were going to tell me this…when?”
Her eyes are scrunched shut as if she’s in pain.
“Alessia, look at me.”
She lifts her hand to her mouth—to suppress a sob? I don’t know. She swallows, then raises her eyes to meet mine. Her expression is raw, her despair palpable. My anger dissolves in a second, leaving me in turmoil.
“I am telling you now,” she says.
She’s unavailable.
The pain is instant. Visceral. Shocking. I’m in free fall.
What the hell?
My world has shifted. My ideas. My vague plans. Being with her…marrying her…
I can’t.
“Do you love him?”
She draws back and gapes at me in shock. “No!” It’s a breathless, passionate denial. “I do not want to marry him. That is why I left Albania.”
“To get away from him?”
“Yes. I was to be married in January. After my birthday.”
It was her birthday?
I stare blankly at her. And suddenly the walls are closing in on me. I need space. Like when I first met her. I’m suffocating in a whirlwind of doubt and confusion. I need to think. I stand, and in one deliberate move, raise my hand to sweep my hair aside and gather my thoughts. Alessia recoils beside me. She cowers and clasps her head in her hands as if she’s waiting—
What?
“Fuck. Alessia! Did you think I was going to hit you?” I exclaim, and step back, horrified by her reaction. Another piece of the puzzle that is Alessia Demachi falls into place. No wonder she always stood out of my reach. And I’m ready to kill the motherfucker. “Did he hit you? Did he?”
She looks down at her lap. Ashamed, I think.
Or maybe she has some misplaced loyalty to the fucking arsehole from Buttfuck, Nowhere, who has a spurious claim on my girl.