Emilia (Part 1)(45)
Even as I muttered the words, I knew they were a lie. There were plenty of things to worry about. Marcello Masciantonio was a wildcard. He could force me to go to Chicago with him when he left. He could read more into our letters than I intended. My father could make Sal disappear if he found out about us.
And I couldn’t forget Lettie. I’d cut her out of my life and refused all of her phone calls. I couldn’t face her after she spied on Sal and me. While I hoped she’d drop out of my life without forcing a confrontation, it didn’t look like I’d be that lucky. She showed up unannounced last week, and I told my father to send her away because I didn’t feel well. He didn’t question me even though he knew I was lying, and I was grateful. Five minutes after he sent her home, she fired off a text warning me not to push her out of my life along with a bunch of other cryptic stuff about not knowing the real Sal. I didn’t respond. I had absolutely nothing to say to her. She showed her true colors, and I no longer wanted her anywhere near me.
Sal’s hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, bracketing my ribcage, and he ran his mouth up the side of my neck. Goose bumps sprinkled my arms.
“Don’t kid yourself. So much could still go wrong, and I won’t have it on my conscience that I took your virginity and you were forced to marry Marcello. He’d make your life hell.”
“He won’t even notice.” I infused my words with more conviction than I felt. I didn’t know crap about Marcello except for the little hints of his humor I saw in his letters. Even thinking about them made me smile. Each one bolstered my opinion that we could be friends.
“He would.”
“Why does it matter? It’s not the eighteen hundreds, and I seriously doubt he saved himself for me. If I end up with him because of some weird twist of fate, I’d be happier knowing I gave my virginity to you, someone I care about, rather than a stranger who married me to cement an alliance with my father. So you see, regardless of the how this turns out, I want to be with you. I want you to be my first.”
He picked me up and set me on the bed, leaving at least a foot of space between us. “I can’t. Not yet. Trust me, okay? I know things you don’t.”
“What do you know?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders tense and his brow scrunched together. “Things about Marcello. Your dad made promises to him and…let’s just wait like we planned. Look at it as a celebration of finally being free from all this.”
My shoulders sagged. Sal wouldn’t cave. I’d pushed him too many times to count, and he never budged from his talking points. He had the patience of a saint. I’d never even had sex, and I lived in a state of perpetual frustration.
“Fine. You win,” I grumbled.
“It will be so much better this way, and I can wait.”
“It’s torture.”
“No shit. Kissing you, having your body pressed against mine, knowing we can’t do anything…” His sinful lips pulled upward. “Well, maybe we can kiss a few more times. You know, so we can catch up for those weeks you ignored me after Christmas.”
“That sounds fair.”
He pulled me into an intoxicating kiss, erasing any lingering feelings of rejection from my mind. He was talented like that.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
I ran my brush through my hair one more time, studying my reflection in the mirror. My lips were painted a soft pink. I had blackened my already dark eyelashes with mascara, and they resembled butterfly wings. My wavy hair looked like black silk against the strapless lavender lace dress hugging my slight curves. The woman staring back at me bore no resemblance to the real me, which in some respects was fitting given the deception I was about to commit.
Marcello Masciantonio was waiting downstairs to be formally introduced to me for the first time, believing we were on our way to being married. That would never happen. I couldn’t let it happen.
A knock sounded at the door, and I pushed out a ragged breath. God, I didn’t want to do this. My heart clutched tightly at the notion of going downstairs and putting on a show for my family and my father’s acquaintances. I’d smile, I’d laugh, and a man I had never seen except one time years ago would announce our engagement.
“Come in.” My voice was strained, and my stomach was rolling with vinegar.
The thud of footsteps echoed in my room, and I lifted my gaze, latching onto my father’s reflection in the mirror. A smile stretched across his normally stoic face making him appear ten years younger.
I spun around, taking in his dark, crisp suit. Today he had on a mint green tie with light blue stripes instead of his usual red or black, probably a nod to it being Easter.