Chuffing, I let him have his way. He’s clearly taking this whole safe arrival thing seriously. And I have to admit, it’s kind of nice having him here, even if he is an obnoxious, overprotective know-it-all.
7
Cristiano
The click of the car door wakes me, and for a split second, I forget that I’m trekking across the country crammed in some Micro Machine-sized car. Reaching for the door handle, I give it a tug and swing the door wide.
I don’t know what state we’re in or exactly how long we’ve been driving now, but I see red mountains in the distance and desert sparse with cacti and other greenery. My eyes focus on a sign by the road that says welcome to Fort Reed, Arizona.
“Morning, sunshine.” Daphne shoves the gas nozzle into the side of the car and smiles wide. “You took quite the nap. Welcome to fabulous Arizona.”
I rub my eyes, and my stomach growls. The bright mid-day sun nearly blinds me when I step out from under the awning above the car.
“Think you can man this thing while I head inside and grab some food?” she asks.
I make my way toward the gas pump, watching the numbers tick by slowly, like they’ve got all the time in the world. Daphne drags her feet through the dusty gravel parking lot as she heads in, her blonde hair blowing in the tepid breeze. There’s a slight chill in the air, but the sun provides enough warmth that it’s not so bad.
Making my way around the car, I check the tires, kicking them and pressing them and making sure they’re all properly inflated. The gas pump clicks once the tank is full, and I turn my attention that way to complete the sale.
By the time I’m done, I climb into the driver’s seat, preparing to take my turn behind the wheel. Attempting to get comfortable here is no easy feat, especially when my knees are jammed under the steering wheel despite the seat being moved all the way back.
Groaning, I remind myself that it is what it is, and then I check my phone. A few friends from back home have sent texts, asking if I’m all right and if I’ll be there for the wedding. I assure them all that I wouldn’t miss it for the world, and I tell them not to sweat it. I’m coming home. I’ll be there soon.
It hits me a few minutes later that Daphne seems to be taking an awful long time, especially considering the fact that we’re in a bit of a hurry here, so I glance at the gas station storefront to see if I can spot her inside.
Only she’s standing out front, next to a newspaper rack, surrounded by a couple of men in flannel, tight jeans, and cowboy boots.
Their backs are to me, but I can see her face. She’s smiling, nodding. Her mouth is moving and her arms are full of snacks and beverages. She takes a step toward the parking lot but they move with her, blocking her almost. From here, I see her smile fade for a second, and then she gazes my way.
Before I have time to think twice, I fly out of the car and make my way toward Daphne and her new friends.
“What’s the hold up here?” I rest my hands on my hips and glare at the cowboys. They turn to me, their tanned faces weathered and their expressions unwelcoming.
“Who the hell are you?” one of them asks, head cocked.
“I’m with her,” I say. “Who the hell are you?”
“They were just asking if we needed anything, directions or whatever. I told them we have a GPS and we’re fine,” she says, words rushed. She releases a nervous titter. “Anyway, we should hit the road.”
I shoot the assholes a look and slip my hand on the small of Daphne’s back, escorting her back to the car.
“Anybody ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” I chuff when we climb inside.
Her arms are full of chips and candy and bottled waters, and she begins organizing it neatly in every cup holder and cranny she can find.
“This should last us a while,” she says. “I guess the Pittz Pit Stop has never heard of bananas or dry roasted almonds. It was nothing but junk in there.”
“Daphne,” I say, starting the engine. My jaw is tight. “Did you hear what I said?”
She pulls her seatbelt across her lap and fastens it with a satisfying click. “Yep.”
“Those guys were looking for trouble,” I say.
Daphne swats her hand. “They were harmless. They were potato farmers from north of Prescott. People in these itty-bitty towns aren’t used to seeing strangers. They were just curious.”
“I watched you try to walk away from them and they followed,” I say, pulling back onto the main highway. “They weren’t going to let you go that easily. I’m not sure if you’re choosing to be naïve about this or if you truly are naïve.”
She groans, resting the side of her head against the glass of her window. “Really not in the mood for one of your lectures, Cristiano.”
Reaching for the radio, she cranks up the music.
I crank it back down before returning my tight grip to the wheel. “Just, don’t talk to strangers, okay?”
“Have you always been this overprotective?” she asks. “God help you if you ever have daughters.”
Fishing through the snacks, she offers me a chocolate bar and a bottle of water.
Messing with the radio again, she tunes it until she finds a classic rock channel, and then she rolls down her window, sits back, and tears into a bag of red licorice, singing along to the Led Zeppelin tune in between bites.
Checking the GPS, it looks like five hours from now we’ll be somewhere in Colorado, and if we can make it a few hours past that, we’ll be able to stop for the night and get some rest.
“FYI, I was perfectly capable of escaping those Deliverance guys on my own, but thank you for taking it upon yourself to come to my unnecessary rescue,” she says, snapping a piece of licorice from between her teeth. She grins wide, her eyes teasing. “It’s cute that you’re protective. And annoying too. And I promise not to talk to strangers again. Though you’re technically a stranger, so where does that leave us?”
“Sweetheart, we’re hardly strangers,” I chuff. “I think we passed that point when we woke up in bed together this morning.”
“Whatever.” She pulls another strand of licorice from the bag and stares ahead with a smirk. “Just drive, Amato.”
8
Daphne
“You sure this is our only option?” I ask as we pull up in front of a giant Victorian house in a creepy little town called Silver Hollow in eastern Colorado. It’s almost nine o’clock and we’ve been on the road nearly thirteen hours today. I’ll never admit this to Cristiano, but driving all these hours really wears a girl out, and these last forty miles, I’ve been struggling to stay awake.
There’s a wooden sign out front with a giant cross and the words Holy Cross Bed and Breakfast painted in intricate gold cursive. A smaller wooden sign hangs off the larger one, indicating rooms are available. The house is painted in shades of plum and goldenrod and hunter green, and ominous weeping willows fill the expansive lot. The turret to the right of the front porch spans three stories and finishes with a pointed metal cross that points to the darkened skies.
“I feel like we’re seconds from experiencing our own personal horror story,” I say. “If we get murdered tonight, I’m blaming you.”
“This keeps us on schedule,” he says. “It’s getting late and we need a place to crash. Next hotel isn’t for another eighty-six miles.”
I kill the engine and climb out, legs stiff and throbbing. Stretching my arms over my head, my shirt rises up just a little, and I catch Cristiano stealing a two-second glimpse.
Grabbing our bags from the trunk, we walk to the front door and ring the bell. My heart races, drowning out the sound of some rogue swarm of birds circling the trees above.
It feels like we’re legitimately standing in some Alfred Hitchcock scene, seconds from meeting an ill-timed fate.
The porch light flicks on with a hum, and we hear the sound of metal locks and latches clicking on the other side of the door. A second later, an elderly woman with a shiny silver bun on her head and a kni
t shrug swings the door wide.
Her lips are turned down in the corners and her beady eyes scan our faces.
“Are you Mrs. Snodgrass?” Cristiano asks. “I’m Cristiano Amato. I called about an hour ago. We’re passing through and needing a place to stay for one night.”
Her brows meet as she scrutinizes us, and her brows lift, covering her forehead in dozens of fine lines.
“Where are your rings?” she asks, her voice brittle and quaint despite the fact that I get the feeling she’s anything but.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks, turning to me and then back to her.
“Your rings,” she says. “This isn’t some Moonlight Motel on Route 66. We don’t cater to philanderers, adulterers, or those engaging in pre-marital relations.”
“Oh.” I place my hand on my chest. “No, no. None of that here. We can assure you.”
She peers over a thin set of glasses that rest on the tip of her nose, and then she reaches for the silver cross brooch above her heart, tracing the tiny inset crystals with her fingertips.
“So you’re married.” She isn’t asking.
Cristiano and I exchange looks. He lifts his brows. I lift mine higher. Something tells me if we want a place to stay, we have to tell this woman what she wants to hear.
“We’re brother and sister,” he says, taking this in a completely different direction than I expected.
It would’ve probably been easier to tell her we were married and not wearing rings. We could pretend to be married. Easily. We can’t pretend to be brother and sister when we look absolutely nothing alike. He’s dark and brooding and full-blooded Italian. I’m blonde as they come with pale baby blues.
“Brother and sister?” she crosses her arms, eyes squinted.
“Our aunt is ill,” he says. Liar, liar, pants on fire. “We’re headed to Omaha to see her. She doesn’t have much time left. We just need a place to rest for the night and we’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning. You don’t even have to make us breakfast.”
Her hands move to her hips. She sucks in a long breath and then purses her lips until they’re flat as a pancake.
“I only have one available room,” she says. “The others are booked.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll take the floor and my sister can have the bed.”
Mrs. Snodgrass searches our faces, like she’s some kind of human lie detector, and steps back from the doorway, finally ushering us in.
“All right,” she says. “It’s ninety dollars for the night. I’ll show you to your room. The kitchen’s closed but it’s late so I assume you’ve already had dinner.”
“We have,” Cristiano says.
“I’ve got homemade chocolate chip cookies in the oven for the turndown service,” she continues. “I’ll bring them up when they’re ready.”
We follow her past the living room with its wallpapered walls, marble fireplace, and brass chandelier, and head toward the steps, taking one creaky stair at a time until we reach the top. She waddles past a series of closed doors, each one polished and stained in rich mahogany. When we reach the last door at the end of the hall, she pulls out a set of skeleton keys and shoves one in the lock, twisting with all her might.
“Here you are,” she says, turning the crystal knob and letting the door creep open.
“Thank you.” Cristiano takes the key she offers him and wheels our luggage in.
Mrs. Snodgrass stands in the hall just outside the doorway and watches us like she’s still trying to figure out whether or not we’re brother and sister.
“Thank you.” I say, closing the door. I listen for her footsteps and hear nothing. Leaning in, I whisper in Cristiano’s ear, “I think she’s on the other side of the door, eavesdropping.”
He smirks.
“If I wasn’t so tired, I’d give her something to eavesdrop on,” he whispers back.
I swat him away and move toward one of the dressers, flicking on a fringed lamp that illuminates a tiny corner of the bedroom. He flicks on the lamp by the bed, which looks to be a full-sized bed of all things, and I jump back, startled.
“What is it?” he asks, scratching the side of his head.
“Oh, my god.” My heart races and I clutch at my chest as I try to steady my breath. “All these . . . dolls.”
He glances around, taking a step toward the center of the room. Everywhere we look there are little porcelain dolls with shiny eyes and glassy stares and frilly dresses. They’re all looking at us. Watching.
“Good god,” he says, exhaling. “Talk about creepy.”
“Talk about horror movie. We’re so getting murdered tonight.” I take a seat on the edge of the bed because dead center of the room feels safer than the doll-filled corners. “I feel like now would be a good time to tell you that I have a genuine, creeping fear of horror movies and ghosts and creepy things. I used to get nightmares as a kid because my brother let me stay up one night with him and his friends for a scary movie marathon. I’ve been traumatized ever since. And there was this one . . . with porcelain dolls that came to life . . .”
I shudder, running my palms along the sides of my arms, hugging myself.
“You’re joking, right?” He laughs. “They’re just dolls, Daphne. They can’t hurt you.”
My gaze lands on one doll in particular. She’s got pitch-black hair that’s folded into two braids that run down the front of her emerald green dress. Her eyes are black almost, and she’s smiling. Staring.
“Here.” He moves toward a cedar chest, popping the lid up and pulling out some folded blankets. Moving around the room, he covers them all up. “Now we can’t see them and they can’t see us.”
I look at him then back to the mounds of blankets littering the room now. “Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. I feel like they could pounce on us at any moment.”
Dragging his hands through his hair, he turns to me, and then he rests his hands on his hips.
“So what? Do you want to leave? You want to drive another hour and a half and hope we can find another room somewhere?” he asks.
“Don’t be annoyed. Please.” I’m laughing, but this is no laughing matter. “I’m legitimately scared of these dolls. I’m not trying to be cute or funny. This is terrifying to me.”
Hoisting his luggage on a nearby rack, he turns his back to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going to take a shower. And then I’m going to bed because we’re hitting the road first thing in the morning. I suggest you do the same.”
“But . . .” I suck in a breath and shiver, though it’s not cold in here. Quite the opposite. It’s hot and stuffy. Little tremors take over my body. If my siblings were here, they’d get a kick out of this.
Cristiano throws a pair of navy sweats over his shoulder and heads toward the en-suite bathroom.
“Are you really that scared?” he asks, turning to face me.
I nod, shoving my hands under my arms to hide the trembling.
“Fine.” He exhales.
“Fine what?”
“Fine . . . I’ll sleep next to you tonight. Will that help you feel less . . . scared?” He’s fighting a smirk, and I’m questioning why my body is all of a sudden changing gears. There’s a heat in my core, a tingle in my belly, and a burn on my lips when I think about sharing a bed with him tonight.
A kiss from Cristiano sure would distract me from the creepy dolls under the blankets . . .
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, mentally scolding myself the second the words leave my lips. Of course he has to do this. I’m terrified. I won’t sleep tonight if he doesn’t, and I need to sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. “But I don’t want to make you sleep on the wood floor. That’s not right. We can share the bed.”
He tucks his lower lip behind his teeth before his mouth pulls up at the corners. He’s totally onto me. Disappearing behind the door, I perch on the edge of the bed and listen to the s
hower run.
After a few minutes of convincing myself that my fears are completely irrational and that I’m capable of ignoring them, I change into pajamas and grab my soap and toothpaste in wait of my turn in the bathroom.
The shower’s still running. It feels like he’s taking forever, and there’s no TV in here to pass the time, so I check my phone and fire off a quick text to Delilah, letting her know where we are and that our first day on the road went smoothly. I don’t tell her about the Deliverance guys in Fort Reed, and I don’t tell her about the lovely bed and breakfast we’re seeking refuge at tonight. Details aren’t important, especially when I have a sister who obsesses over them.
A moment later, the door swings open, and Cristiano emerges in a cloud of soap-scented fog, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Oh . . . hello,” I say, keeping my eyes on his and pretending like I have no desire to lick the rivulets of water that are currently trailing from his muscled shoulders down to his rippled abs. My mind chooses now as a good time to point out that the only thing separating me from him is a thin white towel and a whole lot of self-restraint.
Good god, he’s sex on legs.
His dark hair is loosely finger-combed to the side, his body glistens under the dim light, and his body is pure muscle, lean and strong.
There’s a lump in my throat that I try my damnedest to swallow away before he asks me a question, because I know all that’ll come out will be squeaks and air.
“Did . . . did you need something?” I rise from the bed, going toward his luggage.
“Yeah,” he says, half-smirking. He takes his place at my side, unzipping a leather pouch on top of his clothes and pulling out a few items . . . a toothbrush . . . a comb . . . I’m not sure what else he grabs because I’m completely flustered and all my energy is being funneled into my feeble attempt to remain calm.
A knock on the door forces my heart into my throat, and I jump back, swallowing a gulp of air. Gathering myself, I don’t consider the fact that Cristiano’s wearing nothing but a bath sheet before I decide to go ahead and open the door.
Cold Hearted Page 32
