Page 67 of The Woman in the Hollow
“I can get—”
“Sit your ass back down,” he demanded, his boyish smirk softening the demand. “You have any idea how hard my mother would smack me if she knew I let a woman get her own drink in my house?”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to upset Giulia,” I agreed, sitting back down gratefully, because as soon as I forced my legs to try to hold me, they burned and objected to it.
“Exactly. You have no idea how many times I’ve been whacked with a wooden spoon in the past. Pretty sure I’ve got a permanent indent in my back from it.” He moved around the kitchen as he spoke, draping his jacket over a stool, rolling up his sleeves, then plating and reheating the food. “In her defense, we were pain-in-the-ass kids.”
“How so?”
“We thought boundaries were for pushing. Repeatedly. The second we got off punishment, we were out there fucking up again. I trampled through one of her garden beds once to grab a ball. Man, I saw stars when she rapped me with that thing on the arm after I tracked the mud through her just-mopped kitchen.”
“I might have whacked you with a spoon too,” I said, watching the way his strong back made his shirt stretch as he moved around, gathering dinner supplies.
“I know, right?” he agreed, coming over with a fresh drink and cleaning up the table in front of me.
“Is that all the glass?” I asked, eyeing a piece of gauze with little dirt and blood-stained shards. There had to be nearly two dozen of them.
“Yeah. It was pretty gnarly. But I’m sure I got them all.”
“Wow. You have good eyes,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.
Little by little, the table in front of me filled with a glass of water, a quick side salad he threw together (but featuring cucumber, tomatoes, onions, and olives), and a plate heaped with penne vodka.
“What?” Dante asked, sitting down across from me in the booth section of the table.
“I’ve had two drinks and am eating a giant plate of pasta… all before nine in the morning.”
“Some days are like that,” he said with a shrug as he picked up his fork. “Besides, in a lot of cultures, breakfast is the same as lunch or dinner, not a whole category unto itself.”
We ate then, mostly talking about his family, cooking, his remaining plans for the rest of the house and yard.
By the time my stomach felt full to bursting, my head was spinning a bit from the liquor, and my eyes were so heavy I was worried I might face-plant on the kitchen table as Dante quickly cleaned up.
“Think you can do the steps?” he asked, grabbing me by the elbow to help me stand.
“Yeah,” I lied, hobbling along with him toward the center staircase.
“Liar,” he accused with a twinkle in his eye before he ducked down and scooped me up.
A delighted little squeal escaped me at the feeling of the ground falling away as he effortlessly held me against his wide chest as he started up the steps.
“What?” he asked, catching me watching his face.
“Looking for any signs of wincing or taxation.”
“Babe, I bench twice your weight. For fun.”
As if to prove his point, he dipped me low then picked me up again. Once, twice. Not a single tensed muscle.
“Alright. I haven’t actually gotten to decorating the extra bedrooms yet,” he told me. “So you’re going to borrow mine for the time being.”
He led me into his room as he said it.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the bright, airy space full of warm woods, creamy white wood walls, a cozy rug under the bed, and art over the headboard.
“This is nice.”
“Yeah? My brothers give me shit about it. Think it’s girly. I like it. Not everything’s gotta be dark and depressing to be masculine.”
