Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2) (16 page)

I work a swallow and nod, my eyes breaking contact and straying to the dashboard. I reach out tentatively and lower the volume. “I like your car.”

He laughs but it’s forced. I look back up at Lorenzo and note the tightness of his jaw, the tiny bounce of his knee, the way his hands clench the steering wheel. He looks pissed. Dangerous. Hot. God, he’s sexy.
As sin
, Lila’s voice adds in my head.

“Everything okay?” I try again.

He shakes his head imperceptibly. “You like waffles?” he asks instead.

What? “Um, what?”

“Waffles,” he repeats, his gaze straying from the road again. “Do you like them?”

“Sure.” I say, my fingers combing through the ends of my hair nervously.

Oh God. How am I supposed to eat waffles? This is why I like Italian breakfasts. They’re practically nonexistent compared to an American morning meal. I look out the window again. My nerves heighten and I start to feel a wave of panic rise in my chest. What if I tell him I don’t like waffles? Or that I think I’m developing an allergy to gluten? Yes! I’m not eating gluten for two weeks to test myself. I can say that, can’t I? Totally believable.

“Great. The place we’re going, it’s the best. An American couple owns it. They moved out here a few years ago and opened up this tiny breakfast bar that specializes in American breakfast foods, but they’re waffles are most popular. I think you’ll like it. A little taste of home.”

Oh jeez. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, keeping my head turned away from him. I can sense Lorenzo’s eyes watching me, waiting for me to respond.

“Sounds great,” I say quietly.

I feel his hand graze the top of my thigh before clamping down and squeezing lightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Mia …” His voice holds an edge of warning. “You can tell me.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep last night?” I ask instead.

He doesn’t answer my question. After a moment, he removes his hand from my thigh. We continue to drive in a silence the borderlines on suffocating.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lorenzo

Anger rides low in the pit of my stomach as I study the back of Mia’s head in between glances at the road to make sure I stick sharply to the meandering turns. What the actual fuck? She was fine, more than fine, when I picked her up this morning. She smiled at me sincerely, didn’t flinch or shy away when I touched her thigh, seemed genuinely absorbed by the natural beauty of the landscape once we escaped the city streets. What went wrong?

Her demeanor changed once I mentioned the waffles. Did I make her homesick? Did my mention of the American couple and their breakfast menu remind her of home in a way that made her sad?

And what the hell was that move of avoiding my question and asking the one thing she clearly knows I don’t want to talk about.
Why couldn’t you sleep last night?
Because I just learned that I have a brother, who may or may not try and bankrupt my family. And I still haven’t told my mama and sister. Fuck! How can I even answer like that? I’ll sound like one of those crazy American families who go on television and air their laundry to a room full of viewers who applaud wildly when a fight breaks out on stage.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, running my hand across the scratchy surface of my cheek. I need to shave. I look down and wince at my ripped jeans. I look like shit. Here I am with a girl like Mia, waking her in the middle of the night, giving her no time to get ready, and I show up looking like a disheveled university student who resides in the dorms. No wonder she’s pissed.

“Mia.” I reach my hand out tentatively, wrapping it around her fingers. Her hand is so tiny in mine.

She looks up warily.

“I’m sorry.” I swallow. When was the last time I said those words and meant them? A long time ago.

“For what?” she asks quietly, confusion etching her features as she turns completely in her seat, giving me her full attention, studying my profile as I turn my eyes back to the road and make another right.

“Whatever I said to make you upset.” I smirk lamely. “For making you homesick.” I try again.

“Oh, it’s okay.”

“We don’t have to go to the waffle place.” I squeeze her hand lightly. “I just thought it would be something you would enjoy, but I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

She looks momentarily relieved. “No, it’s okay. Really, we can go there. I’d love an American coffee.”

I laugh. “You mean coffee-flavored water?”

She laughs with me. “I mean an oversized mug with nectar from the Gods.”

“Yeah, okay.” I laugh, the tension seeping from my shoulders as the atmosphere in the car warms.

“I’m serious.”

“Whatever you say.” I turn into the miniscule parking lot and shove the gearstick in park. “We’re here.”

Mia unclicks her seatbelt and smiles at me. “Thank you,” she says simply.

I nod, opening my car door.

When I walk around to the other side, she’s already standing, waiting for me. On impulse I link my fingers with hers, and we walk into the tiny restaurant, the smell of greasy bacon and warm waffles welcoming us.

* * *

I let Mia off the hook of ordering waffles if she promises to try a bite of mine. She agrees and orders a large coffee and two scrambled egg whites with a side of sautéed mushrooms.

Weird. I’ve never met an American who eats as healthy as she does. Must be the dancing.

I order a Belgian waffle and a side of bacon.

We smile at each other across the table as the waitress/hostess/cook/owner disappears into the kitchen. I love this place. It’s a hidden gem that not many know about, especially not the tourists that flock to Italy every summer, loudly talking and spilling out of every restaurant for the months of July and August. I shake my head at my thoughts. Those tourists add a lot of business to Angelina’s, especially during August when Italians leave the city to vacation in the mountains or by the sea. And now, Angelina’s may be the only source of income my family sees for the foreseeable future. I sigh heavily, crossing my arms on the table.

“Want to talk about it?” Mia offers, extending her hand gently to rest on my forearm.

I smile at her but it’s forced. “I’m dealing with some family stuff,” I tell her honestly.

She nods. “So you’ve said. I know what that’s like.” She dips her head, catching my eye and smiling lightly.

“I know you’ve been wanting to talk. I didn’t mean to blow you off when you came to Angelina’s.”

She shakes her head. “It’s really okay. I just wanted to apologize for the other day.” She sighs nervously, her fingers rolling a napkin. “You seemed kind of annoyed that I brought Pete to Angelina’s. It’s just the first place I thought of to have a coffee when we agreed to meet up and work on our project.” She looks up, her gaze cutting straight through me.

And now I feel like a giant ass. Poor Mia has been carrying around some sense of misplaced guilt because I’m a moody, jealous fucker. I sigh, dropping my head into my hand for a moment.

“I’m sorry for reacting how I did. You didn’t do anything wrong. I do have a lot of family stuff going on, and I’m sorry if I took it out on you.” No reason to mention how jealous, how insanely furious I was at seeing her with Pete, at watching him touch her arm, make her laugh. I’ll sound like a psycho. “How’s your project going anyway?”

She smiles, relief evident on her face. Somehow, it makes me feel even worse.

“It’s good. We’re making a lot of progress. Pete’s a good partner, much better than I thought he would be. We should have everything wrapped up in the next few weeks.”

My fingers dig into the underside of the table. They’re not finished yet? I know, I just know, that Pete Buchanan is drawing it out, making the project drag on, wanting to spend more time with Mia. Fuck, it’s what I would do if I was partnered with her for a class project.

“I’m sorry about your family stuff,” she adds. She doesn’t say anything else but watches me expectantly. Her chocolate eyes are open, honest, clear. Little flecks of honey and gold dot her irises. Her lips pout in thought, and I want to lean across the table and capture her mouth with mine. God, she’s beautiful. And she has no fucking clue.

I love that she doesn’t push. Caterina, Giulietta … hell, even the queen of passive-aggressive Simona would all be hounding me to tell them what the fuck my deal is. But not Mia. She sits there quietly, studying me, thinking her own thoughts, allowing me the time and space to decide if I want to confide in her. And I know, just know, that if I chose to deflect right now, she wouldn’t hold it against me. And knowing that has me telling her the truth.

I clear my throat. “I found out on Monday that I have a brother I didn’t know about. His name is Anthony.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, her eyebrows momentarily disappearing into her hairline. Okay she clearly hadn’t expected that. “Oh,” she says, her fingers gripping into my skin.

“Yeah,” I cluck, fighting back a wave of laughter. “Oh.”

She smiles, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I thought you were going to say, but that wasn’t it. Are you okay?”

And there she goes again, blowing me away with a very non-typical girl reaction. Every girl I know would have leaned forward conspiratorially and demanded answers to the juicy questions. What does your mama think? Was your papa having an affair? How old is he? How did you find out?

And this girl, Mia, she asks if I’m okay. I smile again. “I think so,” I tell her honestly. After my late-night Facebook stalking—fuck, if that didn’t just make me sound like every girl I never liked—it seems that Anthony Casale is actually a decent guy. He owns a microbrewery in Brooklyn. Now
that
was something I most definitely didn’t expect. The heir to the Barca legacy making beer for a living. I snort. It really is comical.

Mia’s eyebrows draw together. “Does he happen to live in Brooklyn?” She asks, putting two and two together.

I smile. “He does.”

She nods. “That’s cool.”

I laugh out loud. Will this girl ever stop surprising me?

Just then our order arrives, and Mia doesn’t seem to mind at all when I steer the conversation to other, less-serious, topics.

Chapter Thirty

Mia

The breakfast spot Lorenzo takes me to is cool, unassuming, very Brooklyn in it’s down-to-earth, chill vibe. I smile at the thought but don’t say anything since I’m unsure how he will react. A brother. A pang of envy radiates throughout my chest; I wish I had a brother or sister out there somewhere, someone else linked to my mom. That would be a nice surprise.

I loved being an only child up until she passed away. Then I hated it. Hated every single holiday, staring across the table at my dad’s sad face, his furrowed brow. It became even worse after he married Claire because then, although he looked happier, I was miserable and there wasn’t anyone else at the table to share in my misery, my grief that
she
wasn’t sitting there enjoying the meal, the celebration, the holiday with us. I became alone in my longing for her.

“What are you thinking about?” Lorenzo asks me directly.

“My mom.” I take a sip of my coffee, loving how it scalds the tip of my tongue, burns the back of my throat. I know I shouldn’t have, but I needed to cleanse my system before bed last night. Wrapping both my hands around the large mug, I tell him the truth about wishing for a sibling.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised that I was so honest, so direct with my response. I want him to know that after he told me the truth about his family, well, I can confide in him too.

“I never thought of it like that. Did you really dislike being an only child? I used to wish my parent’s never had Claudia.” He laughs wryly, but I hear the thread of truth woven around his words.

I place my mug on the table. “Being an only sucks,” I tell him truthfully. “Regardless of your relationship with your sister, you always know deep down that you can count on that person. Even if it’s only to confirm your parents are nuts or something, that person will always know and understand you in a way that no one, not even your closest friends, ever could. You have a deeper bond, a connection, that can’t ever be broken just by the fact that you were raised and loved and cared for by the same people. My best friends all have siblings and even though they fight sometimes, especially Emma and her sisters, they’re always there for each other. Lila would do anything for her brother Brandon; he’s always looking out for her, considering her best interests, trying to protect her. Maura is a shadow of her former self, barely existing, since she lost her twin, Adrian. That connection, if you’re lucky enough to have it, you get to keep it for life. I always wished for that.”

He nods in agreement. “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying. And you’re right.” He takes a bite of his waffles, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s funny, really. Since Papa passed, Claudia and I have grown so much closer. I see all these things in her that I never noticed before. And I wonder, was she always this considerate toward me and I never cared to pay attention before? Or is our relationship changing because of the situation we’re now facing?”

I think about his question. “Does it matter?” I finally ask.

He smirks, shaking his head slightly. “I guess not.”

“So, what are you going to do about Anthony? Do you think you want to contact him?”

Lorenzo tilts his head to the side, clearly thinking over my question. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I guess I’ll have to talk to Claudia about it and see what she’s most comfortable with.” After a few beats he laughs, recognition dawning on his face. “Yeah, you’re right about siblings. I couldn’t imagine dealing with all this without her. Even though I still have to tell her about Anthony.”

I smile. “I’m glad you have her then.”

He nods. “Yeah. Are you all done? I want to show you something.”

“Sure.” I fold my napkin on my lap, careful not to let the little bites of food I stored there fall out. “All set.”

While Lorenzo pays the bill, I check my phone for the time. Shoot! I have class in twenty minutes. A moment of panic grips my insides, but then I take a deep breath and count to ten.