Page 2 of Make Me A Sinner
And because I'm apparently some special kind of idiot, I even considered going back, at one point. Luckily, I'm not quite that stupid. I realized I probably wouldn’t live long enough to face the consequences, he’d kill me on the spot. By now, he’s probably convinced himself that letting me go into the museum alone was a mistake, and he's the kind of man who learns from his mistakes, not repeats them.
Today, I have to head into town. I need to pick up some supplies, but more importantly, I have to send money to the pawnshop in California and cover the interest for the earrings.One more paycheck and I can get them out. I don't even know why I didn't just give them up. I think they're a reminder of what brought me here—like the last thread tying me to my old life.
There aren’t many stores around here. It's just a small, picturesque village where tourists usually come for extended vacations, just like I did.
The only place I can send money from, is a store right next to the old bar I worked at when I first got here. It’s kind of a jack-of-all-trades place, even having a pay point in the pick-up section for external packages. Sure, I could also send money from the post office, but they make you fill out all your info, and that's traceable. So, that’s a no. That's why I don't use a bank account. Not that there are any banks here anyway, just a couple of ATMs. If I remember right, the closest bank is about twenty miles away.
And since this place is a little stuck in time, there’s no self-service machine, so I have to wait for the guy—who also owns the place—to finish ringing up some tourists' groceries.
I don't mind waiting. The past couple of weeks, I’ve felt a little too removed from civilization, and sometimes I worry I’ve turned too much of an insulated savage for my own good.
I take a seat in a rustic, hand-painted chair next to the counter. The piece of furniture is for sale since tourists seem to love anything made locally, but I know Marco, the owner, won't mind. I used to sit here every time I came in, and he’d keep me for an extra five or ten minutes just to chitchat. Well, he was just trying to flirt. But I haven't been in a flirting mood for a while now. Not since I left Set.
Just as I’m about to give him my payment details, another customer walks in with an arm full of ice cream. He must’ve grabbed it from the container outside. I let him go ahead before his ice cream melts. I’ve got time, and I know Marco won't let me leave that easily, especially after not seeing me for almost a month.
He flashes me a smile before grabbing a bag for the tourist and scanning the ice cream. He's the definition of Italian, but in the best possible way—dark hair, a to-die-for smile, that unmistakable Florentine accent, and a few tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his T-shirt. He’s like a breath of fresh air in picturesque Italy. Honestly, he's the best catch in town. Though, the more I look at him, the more I’m convinced he’s probably the best catch in the next few towns too.
He asked me out while I was working at the bar, but my head was completely elsewhere back then. Still is, honestly. And I need to drag it out of there.
Maybe I just need a good dicking. But my body doesn't seem to have any reactions to any man here in Italy. I tried telling myself I just don't like Italians—but I know better. I just don't like anyone except Set. And that's a mistake I need to fix as soon as possible.
two
-Serena-
Marco finally finishes with the tourists, and it's almost noon. Everything shuts down for a couple of hours at noon here, so he puts the CLOSED sign on, after telling me he'll handle my transfer once he locks up.
"I've missed you, Bella," he confesses with a genuine smile plastered on his face. He's the kind of man who doesn't like to waste time and usually admits how he feels. Something totally new to me—the second part at least.
I smile back and tell him about my time at the estate. Not that there’s much to tell, since nothing ever happens there, but I feel like if I don't talk to someone soon, my mouth might seize up permanently. So, that makes me try to be civilized and make small talk about little things like how the lady who owns the bar where I used to work just got another cat, bringing her total to nine, or how some tourists nearly torched the place across the street trying to light an improvised barbeque with brandy.
Which brings us to a verypressingtopic: food.
My stomach twists and growls, and I realize I forgot to eat—again. So, I try to excuse myself to still find an open restaurant and grab a quick lunch, but I get a better offer. Marco lives above the shop and offers to cook me an authentic Italian lunch. Who can say no to that, especially since I'm still trying to convince myself to take action—orgetsome action—to get over Set?
I'm usually not so bold, but Marco has a way with the ladies, and even though he flirts with me every two seconds, I don't see him as a threat to my heart. Maybe that's why I feel so relaxed around him. And it's not even dinner anyway; it's just lunch, so this wouldn't count as a date, more like lunch with a friend.
A Friend Who Cooks... Shirtless.
To be fair, he did claim he was too hot and didn't want to get food on his shirt since he had to go back to the shop later.
"Can I help?" I offer, ready to pitch in with the work. I know I'm no master chef, but I can chop vegetables.
"Just sit here," he asks, motioning to the bar stool at the kitchen island. "Red or white?" he nods toward the wine bottles, waiting for me to choose.
My instinct tells me to say neither. My mind’s already fucked up enough without adding alcohol to the mix. But then there's the wild side of me—the one desperate enough to try anything just to mute the regrets and the consuming thoughts constantly clawing at my brain.
"Red," I reply, watching him pour my glass.
Like the perfect gentleman he is, he gets right to it and hands me my wine.
Now I can actually relax—maybe that's my problem. I don't feel that tightening feeling in the pit of my stomach when I'm with him. I don't feel it around any other men. It's like it's completely gone, and only one person could revive it.
I take a sip of wine, watching Marco as he chops some mushrooms to prepare what he claims to be his famous pasta—which he made himself. Yes, he made the actual pasta out of flour and whatever else goes into it. And I want to consider that hot. A man in his early 30s cooking like that is gold. Still, that has absolutely no effect on me. I think it's because he's more Husband or Dad of The Year material than the dangerous mobster I’d fall for in a heartbeat.
I think I've been running in self-destruct mode for a while now. And I need that extra hit of adrenaline to stay interested.
I watch him as he expertly handles the knife—but just not in the way I think I would want him to. Yeah, something’s definitely wrong with me. Because I look at him, I can’t even tell what's hotter—the frying pan or him. It's not just the attitude that doesn't match the well-toned body. I think he's too much of a decent human being for me. And that's becoming the main problem in my life. I only fall for jerks.
