“Then you should.”
I stare at her, feeling like I’m thrust backward, away from her and any possibility of a normal, legit life. A normal family. A woman who makes the room light up. It’s like I’m in a movie, when the camera suddenly zooms way, way back. She becomes tiny. So far away. Completely out of reach.
And I’m here, stuck being the man everyone hates. My own brothers included.
The Milano girl comes over. “Here you go, Mr. Tacone,” she murmurs as she places my coffee in front of me.
“You okay?” I ask.
She heaves in a breath and blows it out. “Yeah.” A bob of her head. “I’m okay.”
“Baby, this is Ms. Milano, owner of the place.” I purposely don’t use Desiree’s name. And of course, I’m not sure of the Milano girl’s first name. Under the table I slide the envelope of cash into the newspaper.
“Marissa.”
Ah. That had been one of my guesses.
She slides our pastry plates down. “My gramps still owns it. I just run it for him.”
“How is Luigi?”
“Good, good. Well. He’s getting old. He’s a little pissed off at you right now, too. Says you’re letting the neighborhood go to hell.” She glances nervously around and gives a forced little laugh.
The familiar thud of guilt hits me like a wrecking ball, square in the chest. “Yeah, I’m working on it,” I tell her.
“Junior won’t be around forever,” Desiree cuts in, eyes sparking. “There’s a season for everything, you know? And his season might be winding down.”
I stare at Desiree, shocked by her instinct to defend me.
Marissa flushes.
I thrust the folded newspaper at her. “Here, you can take this,” I hold her eye so she knows I’m communicating something more than a garbage run. “I’m all done with it.”
She nods and spins around to walk away, moving swiftly toward the back room.
I drain my coffee. “doll, I’m not used to anyone being crazy enough to speak for me.” My voice comes out gruff, but it’s not a remonstration. I’m just not used to feeling indebted to people.
“Well, that’s bullshit,” she snaps and I can’t help but smile.
“You’re still dreaming I can quit.”
“You want to. Admit it.”
I find myself drawing in a sudden breath at the audacity of even allowing myself to think, much less speak that truth.
I ball up my napkin and toss it on the table. “I can’t. End of story.” I stand up.
Marissa emerges from the back room and gives me a nod from behind the counter. I guess that means I brought enough. I walk over and hand her a card. “Tell Luigi to call me if he needs anything, yeah?”
She takes the card and bobs her head.
“Or you can call. Caffè Milano is a business I will always support.”
I mean protect, but I don’t want to say it out loud in front of customers.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Tacone, I really do.”
Desiree steps closer to me and I put a hand on her back.
“Have a nice day,” I say, steering Desiree toward the door.
“You too. Thank you,” the Milano girl sings out to my back as we leave.
“So what’s her story?” Desiree asks rather sharply as we walk out.
I shrug. “Don’t know. I remember her running around here as a little kid. Now she’s running the place.”
“The money made her moony.” There’s a bitterness in Desiree’s voice that isn’t familiar to me.
I stop her in front of my car and tilt my head, looking down into her face. “What do you mean?”
She purses her lips. “Like she was ready to blow you after she saw how much you gave her.”
A bark of surprised laughter tumbles out of me. “Cavalo, doll. You don’t have to be jealous. I’ll be giving you twice that.” I smile. “And you won’t even have to blow me.” Except all the blood rushes to my dick at learning Desiree’s jealous, so I’m immediately sorry for those words.
She flushes and gives me a shove, like she’s embarrassed at being called out. “I’m not jealous,” she grumbles.
I back her against my car, cage her between my arms. “Baby, I’d give you money just for that pretty smile of yours.” I grind against her, watching her pupils dilate, the pulse in her neck go wild and frantic.
She grips the lapels of my jacket in her small fists and pulls me even tighter against her, rocking her hips to meet mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I even said I’d let you drive my car, and you should know that I don’t let anybody drive my car.”
She beams up at me. “Then give me the keys, hot shot.”
I shove my aching cock into the notch between her legs one more time, then dig my hand into my pocket to produce the keys. “Please don’t make me sorry,” I beg. “This car is my baby.”
Her grin is naughty as hell, and she’s every bit the woman who drives me wild—the sassy, confident beauty who tosses her hair and swings her hips as she walks, daring every man around to watch her without getting hard.