“Antonio Salvatore Castellanos, I know you are not on your phone at the dinner table.”
Sighing, I slide the phone back into my pocket and sit up a little straighter.
My younger sister smirks at me. “Idiot,” she whispers.
“Madeline, don’t call your brother names.”
I burst into laughter, hearing my mom lecturing us like we’re kids again at the dinner table. Elbowing Maddie, I add, “And no slouching—sit up like a lady.”
“Shhh,” she stage whispers. “You’re gonna get me grounded.”
“Stop making fun of your mother,” Dad says, his gray eyes sliding a look of censure in our direction as if we are, in fact, children.
Ma shakes her head, like she just doesn’t know how we turned out to be such hoodlums.
I shake my head in mock disappointment before telling Maddie, “We’re definitely getting coal in our stocking this year.”
She instantly loses her smile, and I remember her new war on Christmas. It’s been half a year, so you’d think she’d be over it already, but her dumbass ex-boyfriend dumped her during Christmas. When she was expecting a ring.
It was a jolly holiday season.
Leaning in, I tell her, “I forgot to tell you I saw Isaac the other day.”
Her face scrunches up. “Ew. Why would I care?”
“He looked really ugly.” She cracks a smile. “Grew this really unfortunate neck beard. Looks like he should be on Duck Dynasty, if the Duck Dynasty guys were uglier.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile lingers as she swirls her wine in her glass, staring at it instead of looking up at me. “Was he alone?”
“Of course he was alone. No one wants to be seen with some ugly neck-beard-having loser. You dodged a bullet there, trust me.”
“He needs a bullet right in his face,” she mutters.
“It could be arranged,” I assure her. “That offer stands.”
That makes her smile again, and she glances over at me. “You know I’m kidding.”
I wink. “You know I’m not.”
—
I’m glad when Monday rolls around.
Francesca’s bound to be back at the bakery, so Mark and I head to the bakery. I don’t want to go in the front door and risk the cameras again, so I give him his instructions and head around to wait by the back door.
It takes about two minutes for Francesca to come out back, wide-eyed and aggravated. “What is wrong with you?”
“You didn’t miss me?”
“You can’t keep coming here,” she says, glaring back at Mark, who has followed her out. From the look on his face, like he’s a kid about to watch fireworks on the Fourth of July, he clearly wants to watch and see what the hell about this girl has gotten inside my brain like a goddamn tapeworm.
I’m not sure either, but as long as it’s fun, who cares?
And it is fun. As if Mark isn’t even there, I let my gaze slowly move down her body and back up again. Both times I’ve seen her now, it’s no-nonsense jeans and T-shirts under her apron. I mean, she looks great, but I wanna see her dolled up.
“I want to take you out.”
Grabbing me by the shoulders, she pushes me back against the brick wall. I’m a little floored by her dominance, but I’m not going to argue.
Then she just lectures me instead of kissing me. I guess I should’ve seen that coming.
“You cannot come back to this bakery, Salvatore. I am not joking. You have to stop.”
“I already told you I’m going to keep coming back.”
Grasping my face between her hands, she looks at me like she’s about to actually growl. “You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
Letting go of my face, she shoves my shoulder, even though I’m already backed up against the wall. “You’re going to get in trouble. Mateo is going to find out. Adrian is going to find out. You are going to get me in trouble. They always find out.”
“Then stop making me come here,” I tell her. Though, actually, that doesn’t sound good, either. I like coming here. It’s fun waiting outside this back door for her to emerge.
“What’s with the lax security on this place?” Mark asks, shielding his eyes from the sun and looking around, noting like I did that for a Morelli holding, this place is way under-protected.
“Mateo doesn’t come here,” she states—and then immediately looks like she regrets her words. “Don’t ask me questions like that,” she says, shoving my shoulder again.
Damn, this girl is turning me on. “Shove me one more time, honey, I’m putting you over my shoulder and hauling you home with me.”
“You’re driving me crazy,” she informs me, her face flushed.
“I’d like to,” I reply. “I’d really like to.”
“You are.”
“Doesn’t someone else work at this place? Have someone else work for you tomorrow. I want to take you somewhere.”
“I’m understaffed as it is,” she says, shaking her head. “Even if I wanted to, which I can’t, it’s impossible.”