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He faked shock. “You just butchered the King’s English,” he gasped.
Then, laughing, we headed downstairs to find Jackson sitting on the bottom step, Daisy on his lap, and Scarlett cross-legged on the floor, listening as he read to them. He stopped when he heard us, and glanced back, his jade eyes bright, his stubble gone as if he’d shaved it for me, and his pink lips curved in a smile. He still looked tired, but so gorgeous.
“Hey,” he said and scooped up Daisy before standing and placing her on the floor.
“Hey,” I replied, because yep, that was about all I could manage.
The girls giggled, Jamie freaking giggled, the ass, and then, with a flurry of goodbye kisses, hugs, and warnings for Daisy and Scarlett to be good for Jamie, we left. As soon as the door shut us out, Jackson stepped into my space, tilted my chin, and kissed me deeply.
It was a hello and a promise, all rolled into one.
“Hey,” he said again, and this time his voice was deeper, sexier.
“Hey.”
He escorted me to his car, a classic Buick Riviera that’d seen better days but was clean inside. “I know we could take your Ferrari,” he began.
I frowned. “I don’t have a Ferrari.”
He faked shock. “That’s a game changer,” he deadpanned, then opened the freaking door for me with a flourish. “I was only going to date you if you had a Ferrari.”
I stopped him with a hand on his arm as concern flooded me. Was he being serious? A hard knot started in my chest, and maybe my tone was off, but I had to get this out. “Most of my money is in trust for the girls. The rest goes to… other things. After hospital costs for Melissa’s care when she was ill, I didn’t have much. I don’t have a fancy mansion or a Ferrari. I’m not rich.”
His eyes widened. “I was joking,” he said, and for a moment, I thought I’d fucked up, because deep down, I knew what we had was a firestorm of attraction and nothing to do with who I was, or who he was.
We were just us.
Shit. I’d overreacted, and now he’d tell me to fuck off, and I didn’t want the date to end before it had even begun. “Sorry, I have?—”
He kissed me to stop me talking and then guided me to get into the car. “You can trust me,” he said. He belted himself into the driver’s seat, then turned to face me, and in a perfect copy of my accent, he drawled: “I’m the law.”
Fuck. That was hot.
And great, now I’m hard in my best black jeans.
* * *
Jackson parked in a shadowed alleyway,the kind of place I would have thought twice about if I were alone, even if I was a big burly hockey defenseman. But with Jackson, it felt like an adventure as he led me to the nondescript back door of an Italian restaurant, pushing it open with the ease of someone who’d done it many times before. The warm smell of garlic and herbs wafted out, inviting us in.
There was no greeting with menus or the usual fanfare of being seated at a table. Instead, a young man, who couldn’t have been over seventeen, approached us with a bottle of wine. His movements were precise, a certain meticulousness in the way he placed the bottle on our table in a far corner of the room, and he wouldn’t meet our gaze.
“No menus,” he stated simply, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Food will be out quick-quick.” His tone was direct and to the point, and I thanked him as he left.
I raised an eyebrow at Jackson, curious about this unconventional setup with the wine and no menus. He leaned in, his voice low. “That’s Alessandro. He’s on the spectrum. Couple of months back, Mack and I met him wandering in a park, completely bewildered. We walked him home, and well, according to his family, that means we’re practically family now.”
Before I could ask more, another man emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron adorned with the colors of the Italian flag. He was a sturdy figure, with a warmth in his eyes that spoke of a life spent around food and family. When he spotted Jackson, his face lit up with a genuine affection. Jackson stood, so I did too.
The man enveloped him in a hearty hug. “Jackson, my boy!” he boomed, releasing him before turning his attention to me.
“This is my date, Oliver,” Jackson introduced us, and I got a hug as big as Jackson had gotten.
“Welcome! I’m Franco,” he declared, as if his name was an afterthought. “Welcome to our little slice of Italy, served family-style, with the freshest and finest options available. I’ll be back soon!”
The conversation flowed easily from there, Jackson regaling me with stories of his work, nothing awful, the quirky funny thoughts, and in return, I told him some about me being traded here with the girls in tow. We didn’t discuss Melissa anymore—I guess she wouldn’t have liked me fixating on her while I was supposed to find a new kind of happy.
Alessandro returned intermittently, each time bringing dishes more aromatic and enticing than the last: fresh bruschetta on toasted homemade bread, pasta that melted in your mouth, meats seasoned and cooked to perfection. I picked what I could eat and injected as best I could, and it was wonderful food and good company.
When Alessandro brought out desserts, he hovered after he placed them down. “I did this one,” he said, gesturing at the concoction of berries and cream.
