Page 98 of Wicked Sinner
I take a deep breath, wanting to give her the truth, whatever that truth is. I look for it, thinking for a long moment before I speak.
“My father wouldn’t let me come back. He said I couldn’t handle it. That I was a fuck-up, that I’d wasted my life, my chance at inheriting, and that by running I’d proved that I would never be anything better than what I was. Never a man who could step into his shoes. I see others thinking that, now. Konstantin, Tristan. But I know I can. I know I can dobetterthan him. I didn’t always feel that way, though. Ten years ago, five… two, even. I wondered if he was right, if I couldn’t handle it. If I’d never be the man he was, even if he was never a man I respected.” I look down at her, wanting her to understand. To see that I’m laying something bare to her that I’ve never talked to anyone about.
“I need to prove it to myself,” I say quietly. “That I can inherit his name, and his businesses, and his empire. That I can run it all, and be successful, and be more than he was. I need to prove him wrong.”
Bridget is quiet at first, and then she sits up, slowly. “I think I understand,” she says softly.
I blink at her. “You do? You had a great relationship with your father, though?—”
“Oh, I did,” she agrees. “And I never needed to prove him wrong about anything. But I do feel a lot of pressure, with the shop. To keep it going, to make it successful. Not because I need to prove him wrong, like you, but because I need to prove that he was right to give it to me. To trust me with the thing he loved second-best in the world.” There’s something wistful in her voice as she says it. “I can understand how you feel, even if it’s for different reasons.”
In that moment, I feel something crack open in my chest. She leans into me again as the movie plays, and I want to keep her there forever. I want to keep this—this day, this moment, and the thought of losing her makes me feel as if I’m bleeding out from the inside. As if I’m going to lose something precious.
Halfway through the movie, she falls asleep with her head on my chest. I should wake her, should suggest we move to the bedroom where she'll be more comfortable. Instead, I find myself just watching her breathe, memorizing the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks and the soft sound she makes when she's dreaming.
This is what I want, I realize. Not the elaborate dinners or expensive jewelry or any of the things I thought would impress her. Just this—quiet moments, domestic peace, the simple pleasure of holding the woman I love while she sleeps.
I don’t know how to have that, and still be true to myself.
I must have dozed off too, both of us slumping into a more comfortable position on the couch, because the next thing I know, pale morning light is filtering through the windows and Bridget is stirring in my arms.
"Morning," she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep.
"Morning,bellisima.” I relish the feeling of her against me, not wanting to move.
She stretches, and the movement presses her closer against me. I can feel every curve of her body through the thin fabric of her clothes, and suddenly I'm completely awake.
"We fell asleep on the couch," she observes.
"We did." I brush a strand of hair away from her face. "How do you feel?"
"Good." She looks up at me. "Really good. I slept better than I have in a while, honestly."
She gets up, disappearing into another room before returning a few minutes later wearing a fresh change of clothes very similar to what she was wearing before. She heads into the kitchen, and I follow, sitting on a stool at the counter as she starts to make breakfast.
“What are we having?” I ask as she moves around the kitchen, and she frowns.
“Pancakes, because that’s all I have, since I haven’t been home in too long to have groceries. Pancakes okay?” She looks up at me, and all I can do is nod at first.
“Anything you want to make is great.”
She fixes me a cup of coffee with instant grounds, which I accept despite the fact that I’ve never drunk coffee like that before, and makes herself a cup of tea as she starts to work on the pancakes. I sit there and watch her at first, but I can’t bear to not be touching her for long. Not when I don’t know how long all of this is going to last.
I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. She leans back against me, and for a moment, we just stand there in silence as she mixes the batter.
"This is nice," she says quietly, at last.
"It is." I nip at her earlobe, making her shiver. "I could get used to this."
I feel her tense. "Used to what?"
"Waking up with you. Making breakfast together. Enjoying our mornings before we go to work."
She's quiet for a moment, staring at the heating butter in the pan with more concentration than the task requires. "It is nice," she admits finally. "But it's not real, is it? This morning, this house—it's like playing pretend."
"Why does it have to be pretend?" My heart thuds in my chest.
"Because you're Caesar Genovese." She turns in my arms to face me. "Because I'm carrying the heir to a crime family. Because you’re you, and I’m me, and we’re worlds apart.”
