Page 6 of The Marriage Contract

She stands, causing the material of her dress to shift. The cut shows a generous helping of her thick, shapely thighs. I bite down, purposefully staring straight ahead as she leaves the room. Otherwise, I’ll turn to get a greedy look at her ass.

There’s something about her.

I massage my forehead, trying to force that thought out of my brain. It sadly doesn’t help any.

CHAPTER THREE

ELENA

We have brunch on the back porch. The grated fires are lit since autumn is coming in. My eyes ache from spending hours last night scouring the internet. I searched “how to seem upper class” and “Italian classic films, paintings, books.” I’m doing my best to absorb as much information as possible. I need to sell Elena Esposito.

Platters sit on the table: assorted meats, cheeses, marinated vegetables. Mr. Moretti Senior, Salvatore, couldn’t make it. That’s a relief because he stared me down yesterday like he could see right through me. Mrs. Moretti, Maria, watches me, too, but not withas muchjudgment.

She’s an elegant woman, her cheekbones sharper than mine will ever be, and she’s wearing an elegant dress that is undoubtedly expensive but not tacky. Her hair is a graceful silver. Dario sits opposite me in a sleek suit, his expression difficult to read—no near-smiles this morning.

“How did you sleep in this new environment?” Maria asks.

“Excellently,” I say. “The bed was ever so comfortable.”

She tilts her head. Was “ever”soover the top? It’s hard to walk the line between seeming posh and fake.

“Your old bed wasn’t comfortable?” Maria asks.

“That’s not what she said, Mother,” Dario says.

Maria glances at her son, her lips pursed. She seems slightly more accepting without Salvatore here.Slightly. “Yes, you’re right. I’m being a Picky Penny, aren’t I?”

For the first time, Dario doesn’t seem ashamed by his smile. His intense eyes seem somewhat less severe as he looks at his mother. “Yes, but just a little. This Mortadella is delicious.”

Clara walks onto the porch. “Would anybody like something more to drink?”

I do my best not to smile at her, not to look at her. I can sense Maria watching me. Auditioning for acting roles—actual acting roles, not insane ones like this—has never felt this stressful. I wave a hand. “What we’d like is some privacy.”

Clara immediately retreats. My stomach twists into a vicious knot of guilt. That was the ugliest thing I’ve ever said or done to a server. It doesn’t feel good at all. Worse, even Maria doesn’t look impressed. She just watches me with that same unreadable expression. Dario’s back to not smiling as he stuffs more food into his mouth. Even that seems elegant and a product of high class somehow.

“Do you have any plans for this wonderfully gray East Coast day?” Maria asks after a pause.

“I’m currently rereadingDante’s Inferno,” I lie because I mostly only read movie scripts and modern, easy books.

“How wonderful,” Maria says. “And you, my dear son?”

“Business,” Dario says. “Always business.”

“You say that with such joy,” Maria points out.

“You know me, Mother,” Dario says. “Joy is the only emotion I’m capable of feeling.”

His tone gets so somber that I almost want to touch his hand across the table. It’s a fleeting, silly thought I don’t entertain for long. We’re from different worlds. He’s paying me. His parents already hate me. He’s a criminal, maybe a violent one. Or perhaps the “maybe” is just pure ignorance on my part. He’s not attracted to me, andI’mnot attracted tohim.

Okay, the last one might be me stretching the truth a little, but it’s not as if we’re short of reasons we could never work for real.And I don’t want us to. I have to remember that.

As soon as Maria leaves, I walk through the big townhouse looking for Clara, finding her in one of the kitchens, chopping vegetables. She looks at me with the same expression she aimed at me when I arrived. “Anything I can help with?”

I glance over my shoulder, making sure we’re alone. “I wanted to apologize for how I spoke to you earlier.”

The look on her face is heartbreaking. It’s as if she can’t even process the concept of somebody in my apparent position apologizing to her. “There is no need for that.”

I walk around the kitchen island and reach out, touching her arm. “No, seriously. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to youlike that. You didn’t deserve it. I—”Used to be a waitress, I almost say, but that wouldn’t exactly jibe with who I’m supposed to be. “… don’t usually treat people like that.”

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