Pressure Point (Point #2) (3 page)

Zoe laughs then, a warm twinkling sound. “There’s probably a lot of freshmen who need help with their closet. It’s good that you are staying here. If I’m not imposing, I’d love to hang out with you.”

“Make yourself at home.”

Blake wouldn’t be right about much when it came to the beginning of our relationship, but there was one thing he pretty much nailed right on the head. Zoe and I were destined to get along famously.

Four months later

When I first met Blake, I denied the hot shot attraction to him, pretending like I didn’t know why his presence sent shockwaves through my system. There’s only one reason I went witless, like I had been struck by a sharp bolt of lightning.

There’s something about me that needs to be said before I go any further. I’m a romantic. In preschool, I married my Barbie to Ken as soon as I pulled them out of the box. They lived together happily in their Malibu beach house and had lots of little doll children. Don’t get me wrong—in my little dream world, Barbie was super mom. She worked at a kickass job, she cooked, and she cleaned. But above all, she was devoted and helplessly in love with her husband. Of course, he felt the same way. Soul mates, the perfect match, true love? I believe in it all. Maybe it makes me naïve or unrealistic, but it’s me, and I’m okay with that.

I blame my parents for my naiveté. They’ve been madly in love since they met in high school and set an example for me. When Mom saw Dad, the attraction was instantaneous and definitely not one-sided. Mom didn’t show her cards right away, though. She played hard to get. But they both knew it was just a matter of time before they wound up together.

Just like those cute penguins that mate for life, I earnestly believe that when you meet the right one, you’re hooked for good. In the deepest recesses of my mind, that’s what threw me for a loop when I saw Blake. As silly as it sounds, and believe me, I’ve tried to squelch the persistent thought in my mind, I felt a connection between us.

That connection was apparently a table for one. Blake looked right through me that first day we met, making me believe that my soul mate meter was off. That’s why I fought vehemently against those initial fantasies of soul mates and forever love. And for a while, all that fighting worked.

Until Christmas break.

“Where does this Zoe live?” Mom asks from where she whisks ricotta filling. I watch on fondly. It’s a familiar sight, her cooking in the back of our family restaurant while I chatter alongside her. Baccino’s is a family tradition, standing proudly on Taylor Street in Chicago’s Little Italy neighborhood since 1982. My father and his two brothers own the restaurant, though only my parents run the place. They leave most of the cooking to the kitchen staff, but Mom still makes her city-famous cannoli for the patronage.

Mom pauses to look up at me, using the back of a hand caked with flour to brush strands of her black hair off her forehead. I got my thick, wavy hair from Mom. Actually, most of my personality and looks come from her. Like her, I’m petite. As in, a couple inches over five feet petite, with a slim waist but curves everywhere else. My lack of height can kind of be the bane of my existence. My cousins who are more like siblings all call me kid, not just because I’m the youngest.

“Not far, actually, in West Town.”

“Street names?” She raises a raven-colored eyebrow at me. That stereotype of an overprotective Italian mother fits her like the well-worn apron tied at her waist.

“Ohio, just east of Damen.”

She nods in approval. “Home for dinner.” It’s not a request, but I’m used to Mom bossing me around. As an only child, she only has one kid to smother, and luckily, I don’t mind her overprotective nature.

“Of course. You mind if I invite Zoe?”

That captures Mom’s attention. Her head shoots up, eyes narrowing on me. “Don’t her parents want her at home?” Mom has a very staunch set of beliefs. First and foremost is family. She couldn’t fathom a mother or father not wanting their child close to them at all times. That’s why, growing up, I spent most of my time at Baccino’s or a family gathering.

At her question, I grimace slightly, thinking of Zoe’s home life. “Her parents have passed away,” I murmur softly.

Mom immediately drops her whisk into the massive mixing bowl and makes a cross over her chest. Once she’s sufficiently prayed, Mom directs me with a serious gaze. “That’s no good at all. A girl needs a mother. Who cares for her? Bring her to the family, we’ll look over her.”

I stifle a smile at her immediate generosity. That’s my mom to a fault, she loves taking care of anything and anyone. Though the family’s her number one priority, my parents accept all of my friends into our fold like they are their own. Mom’s like one of those saints she prays to, selfless and giving.

“Zoe’s got a half-brother who adores her. He’s eleven years older than her and has taken care of her since her parents passed. She lives with him and they’re really close. They’re kind of like our family, but a lot smaller. Her brother raised her right. Strong sense of family values.” Mom makes a hum of approval. “Zoe and I’ve become close at school. Really close.”

On that first night of the semester, it only took one episode of
Sex and the City
for our friendship to click. We both burst into laughter over one of Samantha’s puns and the rest was history. A binge TV marathon turned into coffee dates, yoga classes, and study sessions. Now that it’s winter break, I’m happy that Zoe lives less than ten minutes from my own family.

“Still, no child should lose her parents at such a young age. You bring that girl over here, yes?” Mom’s pointing her whisk at me in a commanding way and my smile breaks loose. I miss these exchanges while I’m at school.

“Done! I’ll be back in a few hours.” I cross the blue speckled epoxy flooring, installed last year as part of the kitchen renovation, and lean over to peck my mom on the cheek.

“Wait, wait. Bring some cannoli for her and the brother.” She cocks her head to a tray of the delicacies on the stainless steel counter.

I make a noise in appreciation. Zoe loves anything sweet, as referenced in her family nickname of Cupcake. Quickly, I shuttle several of the pastries into a white box stamped with Baccino’s logo.

“Drive safe,
cara,
” she mutters as I head toward the door.

“Bye,” I return and slip into my poofy winter jacket. With the box of pastries held securely in one hand and car keys dangling from the other, I leave through the back entrance. My trusty Honda Civic waits in its parking spot behind the restaurant. Bitter cold nips at my cheeks; I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept the Chicago winters, but even the thought of leaving behind my family for a warmer climate makes my stomach twist sharply.

Chicago’s been the Baccino family’s home since the early twentieth century. Unlike my cousin, Dominic, who moved to the West Coast to pursue a career in sports, I’ll do everything in my power to make my own way here.

Our family townhouse is less than two blocks from the restaurant. Mom and Dad practically raised me in the kitchen walls, teaching me to cook instead of the Italian language.
You’ll speak to people through your food, cara,
Mom used to tell me while we formed meatballs.

At first, they were disappointed when I told them midway through high school that I didn’t want to go into the family business. The grueling hours and repetitive nature of the food service industry had never appealed to me, though I’ve always felt at home in the kitchen. But my cousin, Antonia, and her husband, Tony (yes, their names get confusing sometimes), want to run Baccino’s. Unfortunately for my parents, their only daughter prefers corporate America. That’s what happens when you only have one child, I guess. Anyway, they’re pleased it will remain in the family and they won’t have to sell the restaurant.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t pay much attention to my surroundings as I make the trek to Zoe’s house. Driving to her house happens automatically from twenty years of navigating the city streets.

“Holy…” I mutter aloud when the house comes into view. Zoe had referred to her house as a brownstone. Sure enough, there’s some brown stones on the façade, but this ostentatious mansion in front of me is far more than the modest mid-century home I had in mind.

Is Blake secretly married with a family of four? The massive two-story structure stands proudly behind a locked gate and looks better suited for many inhabitants, not a bachelor and his sister.

Blake.

I’d tried my hardest not to think of Zoe’s gorgeous older brother after that first encounter during move-in day. It was nearly impossible because she mentioned him frequently and talked to him on the phone almost every day. But, somehow, I was able to go on dates and pretend like I wasn’t insanely attracted to him. Rationally, I know it’s not inevitable that I will see him (the guy’s busy, not sitting at home waiting for me to arrive), but still, I’m nervous.

“Maybe he’s not as handsome as I remember,” I mumble to myself as I collect my things.

Fat chance.

I climb out of my car and into the bone-chilling temperatures. With the box of sweets safely in hand, I press the call button on the front gate.

“Yeah?” a husky voice demands impatiently. The cockiness filters through the intercom, its owner obvious.

“Hi, um,” I stammer as suddenly the nerves have taken over and I’m finding it hard to talk properly. “It’s Stella, Zoe’s friend?”

“Are you asking or are you telling me?” his voice comes back teasingly.

I frown at the black box, turned off by his overconfidence. “Telling you,” I snap back.
Where did that come from?
I wonder in surprise at the hot poker of annoyance shooting through me.

He chuckles before saying, “Come in,” and unlocking the gate with a sharp buzz. I push through, hustling across the front stone walk, shoveled free of the snow that’s growing dirty on the edges of the streets. When I get to the tall, red front door, it swings open before I’m able to knock.

The sight of him standing there, a wolfish grin spread across his face, sends my heart into overdrive. Wait. Wolfish isn’t the right word, because he’s definitely
not
looking at me like he wants to devour me. My lovesick imagination draws up that fantasy, and I quickly stamp it down. He’s everything that I remembered and more. Despite the chilly temperatures, Blake’s skin is tanned like it was the first time we met in the summer. Still tall with lean muscles and caramel-colored eyes that make me want to devour him. His light brown hair is styled perfectly. In fact, that’s the word that I’d use to describe Blake Campbell: perfect. In jeans that curiously look like they may have been starched and a steel-colored cashmere sweater, he’s pressed and polished. Like I said. Perfect.

Even though he’s making me forget my own name, I manage to speak coherently. “Hi, Blake.” My breath sends white puffs of air toward him and his smile instantly falls.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs, brows furrowed as though the thought displeases him immensely. “Come inside.” He takes a step forward, barefoot I notice, onto the concrete front stoop and ushers me forward. The protective nature must be because of his fatherly ways, having raised his sister Zoe.

I allow myself to be led inside, and he shuts the door firmly behind me. Now that winter’s bone is safely behind us, Blake’s smile returns and all of a sudden I’m stupid with desire. No new warts or missing teeth, the man is even more delectable than when we first met. Blast!

“What have you got there?” He takes a step forward, sending my senses into panic mode. My heart punches my rib cage as his masculine scent wraps around me. The heady scent of fire smoke wafts off his skin and lulls me into a relaxed state. There’s nothing that I love more than curling up next to the fire with a book, but the chimney at home hasn’t been cleaned in a few years, making it unsafe to light one.

Blake’s close. Too close. Only a few inches away, and if I tilted my head up, I could brush my lips against his chin. What would it be like to feel –

“Baccino’s, huh? Did my sister tell you that’s my favorite restaurant?”

I snap to attention, looking up to find him pulling my box from my hands. “Your favorite restaurant,” I repeat slowly, “is Baccino’s?”