A shiver ran down my neck, but then he left with a parting word.
“Don’t fucking do it again.”
The sun burned hot and heavy. I imagined if I lay on the brick patio, I would be as well-done as my steak.
“Really, Celia,” Nonna complained. “It’s hotter than blue blazes out here and I can still see a bloodstain on the patio.”
I’d changed into high-waisted shorts and a short top that bared a sliver of my midriff, and a drop of sweat still ran down my back.
“Some fresh air is good for you,” Mamma replied.
“So is edible food,” Nonna muttered, pushing shrimp around with her fork like they were still alive.
I kept my eyes on my plate as I ate, mostly because Nicolas sat directly across from me. He wore no jacket, and he’d rolled up his white dress shirt. I was right. Black ink started at his wrist and disappeared into his shirt. It wasn’t often I’d met men with tattoos—at least, not ones so obvious. The only thing I could make out was the ace of spades tattooed on the inside of his forearm. I guessed he accepted the nickname “Ace,” which I’d heard he was called. I might have read a few articles on him myself.
He sat next to Adriana, and they both seemed like they’d always done it. She’d even given him a look because his leg was touching hers. It was strange to imagine them as a couple, yet I’d seen them exchange words, which I’d believed would be a difficult feat in itself. I thought Mr. Rabbit had even been brought up. I’d assumed they wouldn’t be good for each other at all, but I was beginning to wonder if I’d been wrong all along.
Papà and Mamma were discussing something between themselves and Nonna was picking at her food, when Adriana suddenly said, “It’s called manspreading.”
Nicolas’s gaze flicked to my sister. “What?”
“Manspreading. How you’re sitting.”
He didn’t respond, only sat back, rested his arm behind Adriana’s chair, and then, like he was merely getting comfortable, stretched his legs out a little further.
My sister’s expression hardened.
All right, maybe I spoke too soon about them working well together.
“You know, Nico,” Nonna started, “I don’t blame you at all for shooting Tony. He’s had it a long time coming and his papà hasn’t done a thing.” Papà grunted, apparently now listening to the conversation. “That boy has shot four of my vases. Don’t know what I’d do if he ruined another.” She sounded like it was the most grievous thing Tony had ever done.
“Glad to hear it,” Nicolas drawled.
Mamma shot her a dark look, and my nonna smiled triumphantly at her plate. These two were all I needed to see to know I would never live with my mother-in-law.
I chewed my lip, hesitating. I’d been waiting for the right moment to ask Papà something and now seemed like the best time. He was always easier persuaded around other people, most likely because he didn’t want to come off as a controlling jerk.
I’d hardly left the house for anything but dance in six months. Surely he couldn’t punish me forever?
“Papà,” I started, “one of the dancers is having a pool party on Sunday in celebration of the Summer Recital. And I was wondering if I could go . . . ?”
“Which girl is this?” he asked.
I shifted under his eagle-eye stare. “Well, actually . . . his name is Tyler.”
Nonna harrumphed. “Since when are you into beta males, Elena?”
I shot her a look for giving Papà the wrong idea.
She pursed her lips and focused on poking at her food.
The table went quiet while he gave it some thought. I swallowed as Nicolas’s gaze warmed the side of my face.
Papà took a drink and set his glass down. “I want the address and the owner’s information. And you’ll take Benito.”
I let out a small breath. Was I being forgiven? Guilt pierced through my chest because I knew I didn’t deserve it. “Thanks, Papà.”
“I’m going inside before I melt,” Nonna said, getting to her feet. “This was the worst day to eat outside, Celia. Don’t know what you were thinking.”