by Kim Linwood
“It’s not your fault, Mom. I never blamed you, and I had a good life. Maybe not a normal one, but I know you did your best.” I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she looks like she’s about to cry.
“You deserved better, too.” She grabs my hand and holds it in her lap. “I believe your father loved me, but when he looked at me, he saw the prize Giuseppe wanted. He didn’t want to give me the world. He thought if he had me, the world would come to him. Instead, it killed him. When you look at Andrea, what do you see?”
Andrea? Everything.
She smiles even though I didn’t say it out loud. “Exactly. Which is why we need to do better, right? For her, and the baby. Oh!” Mom’s mouth falls open in shock. “I’m too young to be a grandmother.”
“Good thing you’re only twenty-nine. You’ll have plenty of energy.”
She laughs and pats my cheek. “Flatterer. You take care of your baby. I’ll do everything I can to help with Marc and Giuseppe. It won’t be easy, but—”
“I’ll do better.”
Mom nods. “Exactly.”
I don’t care what it takes, Andrea and the baby deserve the world, even if I have to burn it down and start over to make it happen for them.
26
Andrea
“It has pockets,” Evie whispers with more than a little awe. “How can it be that pretty and have pockets?” She fits one of the sparkly demonstration tiaras on top of my head and we both look in the mirror.
I slip my hands into the pockets and twirl, the sheer, lacy top layer of my skirt flaring out like on one of those beautiful actresses in an old movie. My hair is partly pulled up on top, but left loose to fall in waves over my bare shoulders. I feel like a princess. Not just a Mafia one, but an honest to goodness princess.
My mother walks into the dressing area with our assigned helper, takes one look at me and sniffs. “It shows too much skin. I said nothing vulgar.”
The saleswoman shakes her head. “It’s quite modest really. The styles these days are much more daring than when we were girls.”
Mother glares at her, probably for the reminder that she isn’t as young as she used to be. “But for a church wedding? Can we add more lace to the top?”
I shouldn’t care.
My brain knows there isn’t really going to be a wedding, but the little girl staring out of my eyes is captivated by the sparkle and promise of the beautiful white dress. So pretty.
“You like it,” my mother declares with a sigh. “I don’t, so of course you do.”
The poor saleswoman puts on her game face. “Why don’t I show you the rest of Caroline’s new collection? Maybe there will be something with a similar style that you both like.” They wander back into the showroom.
Evie peeks out after them, then turns back to me with a shocked expression. “This is bonkers. Are you going to tell them the big news before or after you have a four thousand dollar dress hanging in your closet?”
I run my fingers over the lacy bodice, marveling at the way it makes my waist look tiny and pushes my breasts up to epic heights while still looking elegant. Another month and I probably won’t fit into it anymore. “Take a picture with my phone.”
What would Montana think if he saw me like this? Would he fall madly in love? Or would he run for the hills? Just because he wants to do the right thing doesn’t mean he thinks I’m wife material.
We’d make a beautiful couple, though. I can barely remember what Marc looks like, but his brother? He’d look incredible in a tux, standing next to me with his messy hair tamed and his beard neatly trimmed. His arm would be around my waist, and his hand on my hip.
“Earth to Andie.”
I smooth my palm over the spot he’d be resting his hand. “Hm?”
“Dragon alert.”
My mother sweeps in again with the saleswoman trailing behind her carrying more dresses. “Change.”
I swallow my frustration and do what she says. This is all just buying time until I talk to Montana and we can figure out how to let our families know what’s going on with as little gunfire as possible. Still, it’s hard to remember that as my mother forces me into high-necked, long-armed grandma dresses.
After the fourth new dress, I throw up my arms and let out a frustrated growl. “Enough! If you keep this up I’m going to insist on getting married in jeans by Elvis at a Vegas chapel!”
“Andrea!”
“Mother!” I snap back at her. “Do you want my cooperation or not?”
From the look on her face, I think the real answer is no, but she grits her teeth and bites out an unpleasant, “Of course, darling.”
“Your daughter looked quite beautiful in the Castigliano,” the saleswoman ventures quietly. “With the right veil, she’d be—”
“Fine! Take her measurements and put in the order.” Mother grabs her phone from her purse, dialing as she leaves the room in a huff. “I need to talk to the caterers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I look down gratefully from my pedestal. “Thank you.”
She gives me a tired smile. “You’ll make a beautiful bride. I’m sure your fiancé will love it.”
As she carefully measures and pins the dress with the pockets, I gaze into the mirror, trying to memorize every detail that I’ll never see again.
Evie’s stomach makes what sounds like a whale mating call. The saleswoman and I both turn and stare in shock. She shrugs at us. “Sorry, but does the Dragon Queen ever eat?”
“Mostly just kale, washed down with wine and the blood of innocents.” I look down with a smirk at the saleswoman who is trying her best not to laugh.
Evie sighs forlornly. “I thought Italians were supposed to be really into food.”
“Ah, right. Millie, our housekeeper, is really into food. Mother is really into reminding us all that she still fits into her high-school uniform.” The implication being that she still tries it on, giving me nightmares about what she and my father get up to when I’m not around. Blech.
Later on, when we’re finally out of the dress shop, I dare to ask about lunch. “It’s nearly three. Do we have time to stop for food?”
“Deep dish pizza?” Evie asks hopefully as we walk to where our car is waiting.
Poor, misguided girl. She still has hope.
Mother climbs into the backseat as our driver holds the door open for her. “We’re going to the tasting next. I’m sure there will be plenty of food, simply don’t spit it back out.”
Evie looks at me like the sky just turned purple and the sun is a duck. “Right. So that’s how eating works. No spitting.”
“That’s what he said.”
We fist bump.
The drive to the caterer passes in silence—aside from Evie’s stomach—and I take the opportunity to send Montana a picture of me in the dress. I don’t know why I do it. I guess since I know he’s never going to watch me walk down the aisle, I’d at least like to hear I look pretty from the man I imagine standing next to me.
I’m probably just asking for heartache, but he’s off doing who knows what with the freakin’ Caporossis and I’m stuck planning for a make-believe wedding with my mother. If it wasn’t for Evie, I’d probably have been hauled off for matricide by now.
The car stops outside an old and very fancy looking hotel. When we enter, we’re immediately escorted back to a private ballroom lined with tables and bustling with people setting up food. I’d be surprised, but while she might not eat much herself, Mother’s Italian heritage does come out when it comes to providing a good spread. There’s a selection from four different dinner vendors, three that do appetizers only, four bakeries and two that specialize in cocktails and wine.
“Prosecco before the meal, obviously.” Mother takes everything in and goes straight to work, rarely bothering to actually taste. “Tagliatelle with duck ragú, and the sea bass.”
“Of course.” A slim man with slicked back hair and a nametag that reads Dave, follows her around scribbling furiously on a p
ad.
They pay no attention to me and Evie so we’re free to nibble. There’s everything from dozens of different types of olives, to little spicy sausages wrapped in flaky pastry. For once my stomach seems happy, so I take advantage of it, moving from table to table and sampling whatever strikes my fancy.
“These are really good.” Evie is busy popping tiny cheeses into her mouth. “Try that one with a grape.”
“Have you considered a cheese course?” A tall, gangly man in tight, cuffed jeans comes over, arranging what I’m assuming are his wares to cover the spaces Evie’s munching have made. “It makes a perfect appetizer.”
I feel a little guilty eating his food. Everyone here is hoping to cater a wedding that won’t be happening, but I suppose that’s why deposits are non-refundable. If things get canceled fast enough, they’ll get paid and won’t even have to do the work.
Another man, nearly as bulky as Montana and dressed in a short-sleeved flannel shirt, approaches with a new tray of cheese. He’s wearing thick rimmed black glasses. Evie and I look at each other, and I can tell she wants to laugh too. If you Google hipster, they would be number one and two on the image search returns. Right down to the arms full of tattoos and the artfully waxed facial hair.
But I can’t deny that their cheese looks excellent.
“Hey, Mom,” I call out.
She’s at one of the dessert tables, critically examining what looks like fifty different types of cookies. She looks up in irritation, as if I’m interrupting. Like I don’t have anything to do with this wedding, other than as a prop. “Andrea?”
“Are we going to have cheese? I think we should have cheese.”
Her eyes close for a second before she pastes a smile on her face. I doubt she was going to give these guys a second glance. “Would you like cheese, dear?”
I do now, if only to drive her crazy.
“I don’t know.” I turn to the smaller of the two men. “What’s your name?”
“Philmore.” He pulls an e-cig out of his pocket and takes a drag.
“And Brett,” adds the guy with the tray. “We’re the managers, owners, distributors, marketers and drivers at The Daily Rind.”
“The answer to your every artisanal cheese need, no matter the occasion or uh… occasion,” Philmore adds. “Cheese goes with everything.”
“That’s a lot of jobs,” Evie says with a grin.
I nod. “And occasions. Do you have any Italian cheese?”
“Do we have…” Philmore laughs. “How about Pecorino Toscano? Smooth and fatty from Tuscany, full of flavor, where you can taste every bit of olive and toasted walnut that went into flavoring it. Or a year old Asiago Vecchio that was exported from the Po valley only days ago. Or perhaps a Robiola Rocchetta from Piedmont that melts in your mouth. Or—”
Brett steps forward. “We have Mozzarella obviously. Buffalo and cow. Caciocavallo. Bra, Tenure, Euro or D’Alpeggio. Manteca. Celentano Ai Fichi. Caprino, fresh or aged. Quartirolo Lombardo… ma’am it would be easier to ask what we don’t have.”
I blink, impressed. “Okay, what don’t you have?”
“Anything that comes in individually wrapped slices or adds ‘processed cheese food’ to the end of its name.”
“I’m sold. How about you?” I ask Evie.
She’s reaching out and nearly touching the tight little curl on the end of Brett’s mustache. Her hand snaps back to her side. “Sounds amazing.”
My mother takes a deep breath and looks at Dave. “Add an assorted table of aged Italian cheese to the finger food. And…” She looks Brett and Philmore over. “Add a formal dress code to the vendor requirements.”
27
Andrea
Montana stands by the door as our limo pulls into the garage. My mother walks by without acknowledging him, but I hang back.
Evie gives my hand a squeeze. “Need a few minutes? I’ll keep the Dragon busy if she wonders where you are.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
She salutes. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Our driver goes out the side door, leaving me alone with Montana. I’m not sure how to start, so I just stand there, totally exposed. After last night, my first instinct is to throw my arms around him, but it’s all too new and vulnerable. Where has he been all day? Has anything changed? Will he think I’m being too needy?
Montana doesn’t seem to have anywhere near as much anxiety about me, because when he makes his move, it’s to drag me into his arms and take my mouth in a panty-melting kiss. I moan in surprise, spreading my hands out over his chest and returning the kiss with everything I’ve got.
When we break apart, he leans down to whisper in my ear. “You taste like cheese.”
“Oh my God!” I smack his arm, not sure if I should laugh or die of embarrassment. “Seriously?”
“I like cheese.”
“Good! Because we’re having a whole table of it at the wedding.”
He stiffens at my words. “What?”
“Where do you think I was today? Didn’t you get my message? I was wedding shopping with my mother.”
“What message?”
“Check your phone, Michigan.”
He fishes his cell out of his pocket. “I see you sent something, but there’s no text.”
I grab it. “Don’t you see the picture?” There’s nothing there but a stub with my name on it.
“My data plan sucks, okay?” Montana takes back his phone and glowers at me. “It only downloads over Wi-Fi.”
“Oh, come on… What is this? 2005?” I take mine out of my purse and bring up the picture of the dress, handing it to him.
At first there’s no reaction, but slowly his expression changes. Hard angles soften and when he looks up, the emotion in his eyes sears me like he just lit me on fire.
I want what I can’t have.
So bad.
I want him standing there at the end of the aisle watching me.
Just.
Like.
That.
And then his hands are on my clothes, pushing off my jacket, and sliding up my skirt until he finds bare skin. He kisses me again, his tongue teasing mine as his hands grip my ass.
“We’re in the garage,” I gasp.
“Don’t care.”
He nibbles a trail down my neck, his beard rasping against my skin. The door into the house is right there, right in front of me. Anyone could come through. I should be resisting, but a few minutes should be okay, right? I’ll resist when he’s done doing that thing with his tongue on my collarbone.
My dress goes slack as clever fingers find the zipper on the back. The neckline sags to reveal my cleavage in front, and the waist falls forwards, making it easy to hike up my skirt. He pushes me back onto the still-warm hood of the limo, his hand burning hot against my bare stomach. Then it slides to between my legs while he comes back up to nibble at my ear.
“Montana,” I plead, not sure if I want him to stop, or keep going.
“Andrea,” he whispers as his fingers press against the outside of my panties.
Continue. Definitely continue.
It’s nearly winter, and the garage is cool, but between Montana and the warmth of the car, I barely notice. Once again, his lips make their way down to my shoulder, but this time he continues to the swell of my breasts. Each kiss leaves a tiny spot of cold on my skin.
With a yank, he pops my right breast free of its cup, then latches his mouth around my nipple. His thumb works my clit through the thin cotton of my panties as he sucks, and my head falls back. Pushing aside my underwear, he drags his fingers through the wetness between my thighs.
“We really shouldn’t…” My train of thought derails as sparks arc across my skin.
“Shouldn’t what, princess?” The grin in his tone is clear, even if I can’t focus enough to look at him.
A shudder runs through me as his thumb flicks back and forth over my clit. Instinctively, I push my thighs together, but he’s right there, forcing
them open.
“I don’t remember,” I admit with a gasp.
He chuckles, low and rough, not letting up with his fingers. At the same time, he exposes my other breast, giving it the same treatment as the first. I bite my lip to not cry out, while grabbing his wrist and holding him right where I need him.
And then it hits so hard I taste blood as my teeth clench. My orgasm doesn’t blossom like the flowers of a petal, it pounces on me from the shadows like a tiger, leaving me flayed alive and desperate to ride the same beast that just destroyed me.
There’s a click as he undoes his belt, a rush of cloth as his pants drop, and then he’s right there, pressing into me. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him on with my heels as his thick length drives past the tight, swollen flesh gripping every inch.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” He leans forward, gripping my thighs so hard I know it’ll leave marks. “You’re squeezing my cock like you can’t get enough.”
“I can’t,” I rasp. “I need more.”
My world is just the two of us. Every time we’re together it gets better. Letting him get so close to me is almost as terrifying as the thought of pushing him away.
A squeal slips out as he lifts me off the car. My legs tighten, holding on, but I’m like a feather in his grip. I cling to his neck for dear life as he fucks me onto his cock. Completely suspended in his arms, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
His hands slide under my ass to support me as he backs me against the wall. I hiss at the cold, but then he jerks his hips and surges inside. Nuzzling his face into my hair, he kisses the top of my head, over and over as he fucks me against the wall of our garage so hard I’m going to leave an Andrea-shaped dent in the drywall.
