Page 86 of Cara
“Yes. I call her Izzy.”
“Rosa was pregnant around our wedding, so she’s four?”
“She’ll be four in November.”
She’s learned to control her expressions when it matters. Her features are unreadable. Grabbing a beer, she twists off the cap and passes it to me. “How’s it been? Are you close?”
“I try to see her once a week. Sometimes it’s not always possible, but it’s more than I used to manage.” I contemplate how much I want to tell her and how much I can say without reminding her of what she told me on the beach—the baby. I struggle to think about it for too long. “She’s wonderful.”
Whereas Sophie couldn’t stand the words yesterday, her smile today is genuine. “Tell me more.”
“In the public eye, I can’t claim her. The family doesn’t know she’s mine. Not even my consigliere.”
Her smile fades. “Bo? Dante?”
“They do. Zeke also… Courtney, too.”
Her gaze sweeps over me, her defenses dropping at the mention of her former housemaid—a mother to her above that. Sophie bites down on her lip, but I notice the tremble anyway. “Courtney? You’ve… you’ve seen her?”
“Often.”
She’s visibly relieved. “How is she?”
“Until this morning when Bo told her you blew through the estate in a whirlwind, she’s been beside herself.”
Sophie grips the railings of the chair. “I need to see her.”
“She’s expecting us in a few days… unless you want me to call her, have her come here.”
As much as I know she needs her, I’m selfishenough to want this brief time for ourselves. I’m not sure if Sophie sees that or craves the seclusion as much as I do, but she settles, reaching blindly for something. I curse myself for sitting so far away when she grabs her beer, downing nearly half the bottle.
The patio umbrella billows in the wind as a gust blows through the beach. The tall grass sways along the dunes, the fragrance of the gardens fraternizing with hot sand and foamy sea spray.
The questions cease while we eat, occasionally studying each other from across the table. She blushes when I catch the ketchup on her chin before she wipes it away, muttering under her breath in embarrassment. It reminds me of a simpler time.
We were so convinced we were in hell. We had no idea that those moments would be our easiest. The effort we must put into our marriage now is tenfold compared to that childish bickering we did so well.
In many ways, we are more strangers now than we were before.
“What did thisIsaacteach you in Reykjavík?” There’s no controlling the churlish dip in my tone mentioning his name. I don’t know the guy, but I already fucking hate him.
“It would be easier to show you.”
I smile broadly. “Not even a day back and you’re thinking about wailing on me?”
Her eyes. I catch them sparkle with mischief. “Remember that when you tease me.”
“I want specifics.”
“I can throw a punch. I'm especially good with knives. I’ve spent the most time with them.”
“He trained you?”
“Day in and day out.” She chuckles, admiring the brightness around us. “It feels strange to be doing anything but that. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Getting beaten into the ground?”
“Don’t let these bruises fool you, baby,” she says, not noticing how my chest tightens at the endearment. “I won that match.”
