Page 12 of Luca
“Morning.” My voice comes out slower than I intend, because I’m taking her in. Not just what she’s wearing, buthowshe’s wearing it. Relaxed. Loose. Like she belongs here.
“You’re hungry,” I say.
Her fork freezes midair for just a beat. “Big day yesterday. Wedding nerves, you know? I barely touched my dinner.”
Bullshit. I watched her clean her plate last night and steal half my tiramisu when she thought I wasn’t looking. I let it slide.
I pour coffee, and take the seat across from her. She eats without pretending it’s for show. No dainty bites, no lowering her eyes.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.
“Like the dead.” She takes a slow sip of espresso. “The bed’s incredible. I haven’t slept that well in months.”
She looks different this morning. More color in her cheeks, eyes sharper. She doesn’t look like a woman weighed down by stress. She looks like a woman who got fucked well and knows it.
“You were nervous?” I press.
She tilts her head, studying me over her cup. “Weren’t you? It’s not every day you marry a stranger.”
The directness is new. At our dinners, she’d answer politely, with careful smiles that said nothing.
“Most brides are nervous,” I say. “You seemed calm though at the ceremony and reception.”
“I’m good under pressure,” she replies, reaching for a second piece of toast.
Good under me.
The robe slips further down her shoulder, exposing warm skin and ink. Black lines curling down her shoulder blade.
What the hell is that?
A tattoo.
A tattoo I failed to notice last night.
I lean back slightly, letting my gaze linger. “Nice tattoo.”
She glances down, tugs the robe up, but not before I catch another glimpse. Looks like words in another language.
“Thanks. From university.” She hesitates, almost self-conscious. “Probably not very appropriate for a Romano wife.”
“Why not?”
“Feels a little… rebellious.” She says it like she’s testing me, like she wants to see what I’ll do with the word.
She’s right, it is rebellious. And the Sofia I met wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
“What does it say?”
“It’s personal,” she says, a faint smile tugging her lips.
That makes me want to see it again. Makes me want to seeallof her again. To trace every fucking inch of her body with my tongue in search of more hidden tattoos.
“What’s the language?”
“Portugues,” she explains. “From a book.”
All perfectly logical. Now, I’m picturing my new wife at school, younger, wilder, stripped of the polish I’ve seen until now. I’m realizing I don’t know anything about her university days or her life even now.
