Page 72 of Unholy Union
I should be irritated, and if I were my father, I would be; I’d scold her. Maybe even demand we leave for her being insolent and back talking. Two things a wife should never do.
But as she sits with her satisfied smirk and enjoys her drink, I’m amused too.
This might be the longest we’ve gone not entirely biting each other’s head off.
“So it’s really your favorite—sushi?” I ask, sampling the sake for myself.
“What can I say? There’s nothing like a good spicy tuna roll. I’m guessing yours is Italian?”
“I could eat it every day for the rest of my life and be satisfied.”
“Fair,” she admits, shrugging. “But what if you could only have one dish for the rest of your life?”
“One dish?”
“One dish. You’re stuck on a deserted island or something.”
I raise a brow at her. “I’m stuck on a deserted island and there’s Italian food?”
“Cato, it doesn’t have to make sense!” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “It’s ahypothetical!”
“Alright, then probably… rigatoni alla norma. It’s hearty, somewhat healthy. Full of flavor. I could probably eat it every day and never get sick of it.”
“I would’ve pegged you as a classic lasagna kind of guy.”
“What about you, principessa?” I ask, sipping from my sake. “But books since you like them so much. You can only bring one book to that deserted island for the rest of your life.”
“That’s not fair! Books are much harder to choose from.”
“You want to talk about unfair? You made me choose a favorite Italian dish. Now that’s unfair.”
“Fine, I choose my Kindle,” she answers smartly, folding her arms. “It’s the same size as a book so it still counts.”
I aim a crooked grin at her from across the table. “That’s a technicality, principessa.”
“Technicalities are the loopholes of life. It’s not my fault you weren’t more specific. I’d ask you the same question, but something tells me you probably don’t read for fun.”
“You’d be correct. If I do read, it’s books on history or things like finance. Was your mother into literature and the arts?”
Our server has finally returned with the generous amount of sushi and sashimi Sabrina has ordered. I’m still not sure what I’m looking at as everything’s set down in sleek ceramic plates in front of us. The way the dishes are prepared is artful, almost so carefully put together that it seems like it should be on display at some exhibit, not eaten for dinner.
“My mother was into that kind of stuff, yes. She was a musician and dancer,” Sabrina answers once we’re alone again. She leans slightly across the table and takes my pair of chopsticks, putting them in my hand to show me how to hold them.
It’s the first time she’s willingly touched me. The first time our skin makes contact in a casual setting like this.
Her soft hand brushes mine and sends a sharp jolt of heat straight through me. I stare at her beautiful face as she tries to position my fingers on the chopsticks and explain how to hold them, but my hand is so much bigger than hers. My fingers are thicker and longer. My skin rough compared to how soft and smooth she feels.
She notices these differences too; she’s aware of my gaze as her cheeks blush and a curl slips across her brow.
Before she tucks it back, I’ve already reached out and done it for her.
I sweep the curl behind the shell of her ear where it belongs, barely resisting the urge for what I really want to do. She’s leaned in close enough and I’m tempted enough that I could easily cup her by the cheek and draw her mouth to mine.
I could kiss her right now in the middle of dinner.
But I shove it down, deciding against it. It would be foolish considering how things are going.
Sabrina inhales a shallow breath and recedes back into her chair as if she feels the same. She’s aware how tenuous things can be between us, and how every move we make can lead to an explosion we later regret.
