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 shower 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.
“Mrs. Snodgrass,” I say. “Hi.”
The smell of warm chocolate chip cookies floods the small space between us, and I glance down to see the tray of milk and cookies in her hands. Her eyes flick over my shoulders and into the room, landing on a half-naked Cristiano.
Her fingers clutch the sides of the tray and her lips form a hard line. “I’m here for the turndown service.”
My jaw hangs. “It’s not what it looks like . . . we’re just . . . he was grabbing something . . .”
There’s nothing I can say or do in this moment to ease the shock Mrs. Snodgrass is feeling right now. I can only hope she’s not going to have a heart attack in the next sixty seconds.
Shoving the tray into my arms, she lifts her nose in the air. “I want you two out by dawn. Leave the money under the lamp on the fireplace mantle.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I say.
Quick footsteps carry her away, and I shut the door softly behind her.
“She hates us,” I say, carrying the cookies to a small table and chair set by the bay window on the far wall. “And now she’s definitely going to murder us in our sleep tonight.”
Cristiano shoves a melted, gooey cookie in his mouth. “I’d like to see her try.”
He heads back to the bathroom, shutting the door only halfway behind him, and emerges fully dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and smelling like spearmint. I take my turn after him, and when I come out, the room is pitch black save for the bright screen of his phone illuminating his face.
Heart racing slightly, I tiptoe across the wood floor and climb into bed beside him. There’s at least a good eight inches between us, which says a lot since this is a full-sized bed and I’m on the very edge, teetering on the verge of falling off because I don’t want to seem presumptive. And I don’t want to make him think my intention was to try to get a reprise of last night’s events.
His screen darkens and I hear the click of the screen as it lands on the nightstand. The bed shifts and he moves closer, slipping his arm underneath me and pulling me into him like I’m no heavier than a rag doll.
“What are you doing?” I ask, heart beating harder and faster than ever. My mouth is dry and my tongue grazes my lips just in case he decides to plant one on me in the coming seconds.
“Protecting you from the dolls,” he says. He yawns before burying his face in my hair, his chin resting on the back of my shoulder.
His body forms to mine.
We’re spooning.
But at least the dolls can’t get me tonight.
My lips form a wide smile in the dark, one that he can’t see. I can’t help but laugh about all of this. Never thought I’d find myself holed up in some Victorian bed and breakfast, surrounded by creepy dolls, and wrapped in the arms of one of the most attractive men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Just another priceless moment, I suppose . . .
Chapter 9
Cristiano
“If you could have one super power, what would it be?” Daphne asks, her knees on the dash. She licks the tip of her pointer finger and turns a page in some stupid book she insisted on buying from the gas station when we fueled up this morning. She thought it’d be a fun way to pass the time since we’ve got another thirteen-hour day ahead of us, but I’m pretty sure I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty fork.
“I don’t know.” I squint at the sun as we head east, feeling around for the five-dollar sunglasses I picked up yesterday at one of our stops. Sliding the cheap aviators over my eyes, I say, “I guess maybe the ability to heal people? Just touch them and then, boom, they’re good to go.”
“Aw, that’s cute,” she says, paging through the book and scanning the pages for another question. “I was expecting you to say x-ray vision or something that could be used for perverted stuff.”
“You think I’m a pervert?”
“You’re a twenty-something-year-old guy, so . . . yeah.” She fights a smile and then punches my arm. “I’m kidding. Okay. Next question. Best childhood memory?”
“My eighth birthday,” I say. “Money was tight. We’d just moved to Jersey. Mom was working two jobs, doing it all on her own. My oldest brothers, Alessio and Matteo, pooled their money so they could throw me a birthday party. The five of us went to Chuck E. Cheese. Played for hours. My brothers, most of them were too old for that place, but they knew I wanted to be there, so they made sure we had a good time.”
“That’s really sweet.” She flicks another page, her voice soft. “They sound like good guys.”
“They are.”
“What’s your biggest secret?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I take my eyes off the road for a second so I can shoot her a look. “You can’t just go from like, ‘what superpower would you want’ to ‘what’s your biggest secret.’”
“Why not?”
“Several reasons, but for starters, I hardly know you.”
“You know me well enough to jump in my car and drive across the country with me.”
“I’m not telling you any secrets.”
“Why not? It’s not like we’ll ever see each other again after this. As long as you’re not confessing to, like, murdering anyone, I’m not going to kick you out of the car.”
I drag in a ragged breath and focus on the dotted white lines on the road ahead. Two semis are crowding the lanes, blocking the flow of traffic as we head up a hill. We’re not even halfway home and this drive is taking for-ev-er.
“Fine. You go first. Tell me your deepest, darkest secret, and then I’ll tell you mine,” I say.
“We didn’t say deepest, darkest,” she says. “Only biggest.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Of course.”
“All right, what’s your biggest secret?” I ask.
I watch her from my periphery, her mouth twisting in one corner as she stares off to the side.
“I’m waiting,” I say after what feels like a solid minute.
“I’m thinking, hold on.” She waves me away before closing the book in her lap. “Okay, when I was a senior in high school, I hooked up with my art teacher. Nobody knows. Not even my friends at the time. It was a one-
time thing. I was at his house, dropping off some supplies that I’d borrowed from him – things we didn’t have access to at school – and he invited me in. We were talking, and then he took me to his in-home studio to show me some of his paintings. There was this one of this girl . . . she looked like me . . . and she was nude. It was weird but oddly flattering, and I don’t even know what happened after that. Everything got dark and blurry and then we were kissing, and it was over before I knew it.”
“Jesus, Daphne.” I exhale, searching her face for signs of distress. “Were you upset? Did you tell anyone?”
“No.” She glances down to her lap, her fingers knitting. “At the time, I sort of had a little crush on him. I was glad it happened. He moved that summer. Took a non-teaching job in another state. Never did find out where he went. His name was John Smith. It doesn’t get any harder to find than that.”
“What an asshole.”
She chuckles. “I know, right? Looking back, yeah. It was wrong. But you couldn’t tell eighteen-year-old me anything.”
“I have a feeling not much has changed in that regard.”
“Anyway,” she exhales, sitting up straight and tugging her shirt into place. “Your turn. What’s your biggest secret?”
“I have two,” I say. “I’m not sure which one to tell you. They’re both pretty big.”
“Two?” She leans closer, her lips drawn wide. “I get two? This is amazing. Spill it!”
“First one.” I draw in a long breath. “Nobody knows this about me. Not my mother . . . not my brothers . . .”
She’s quiet, which I take as a sign that she’s all ears.
“I never graduated from law school. Everyone thinks I did. I was screwing some girl who worked in the registrar’s office, and I convinced her to put me on the list for the ceremony. They give out that fake diploma anyway, so it didn’t matter. It was all for show. I just wanted to make my mom proud.”
“Damn.”
“I just want to explore the world, as cheesy as that sounds. I realized halfway through law school that I didn’t want to practice law. I didn’t want to sit in an office all day, putting in fifty, sixty-hour weeks, hoping someday someone would make me partner. So I quit after a year and traveled on my own for a bit. Went back to campus to clear out my apartment, ran into that girl, and it all sort of came together. It was her idea actually, but I gave her the green light. I feel horrible for lying though. One of these days I’ll come clean, especially to my mother, but when I look at her and see the pride in her eyes . . . I’m just not ready to let her down yet.”
Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 8
