He orders a combo, shouting over the driver’s seat, and we pull forward.
“Cold feet is normal,” I say. “Or so I hear. I wouldn’t know. But I feel like if someone’s at the point where they’ve already committed to marrying someone, they’re probably making the right choice. I mean, if you go so far as to give someone a ring and propose to them, you had to have wanted to be with them at some point. Maybe I’m not making any sense. I just think that the week of the wedding is kind of the worst possible time to second-guess your decision. You’re stressed and feeling irrational and not thinking clearly. You have to trust your gut and trust that the non-stressed, rational version of yourself made the right choice.”
I quietly pat myself on the back because I feel like Delilah would be proud of me right now. I’m well aware that I suck at psychoanalysis most of the time. Art is my strong suit. Give me something abstract, and it makes perfect sense. But this . . . I feel like I made some sense here.
“Nah,” Cristiano says, his chin jutting forward. “Those two have no business being married. I’ve tried to get my point across for the last two years. Not sure what they’re thinking, but if it were up to me, I’d stop the wedding in a heartbeat.”
“Oh.”
“Biggest mistake of their lives, if you ask me. They’re all wrong for each other. And Joey deserves better.”
We pull forward to the next window, and he hands me a ten-dollar bill to pay.
“If more people would listen to you, the world would be a better place, right?” I tease, trying to lighten his mood.
“I don’t know about that, but a lot less people would be getting fucked over. That’s for damn sure.”
Chapter 11
Cristiano
“The hostess won’t stop staring at you.” Daphne fights a smile as she peers over a laminated drink menu in a booth at the bar and grill attached to the Family Comfort Inn Hotel and Suites.
“She wants me,” I tease, polishing my nails on my shirt and stretching my arms over my head. Lacing my fingers behind my neck, I toss her a wink and a smile that makes her blush and spin on her heel. She nearly bumps into a busboy. “It’s nothing new.”
“Women stare at you a lot. I’ve been noticing that the last couple of days. Everywhere we go, you literally turn heads. The gas stations . . . the rest stops . . . the restaurants . . . driving seventy-five miles per hour down the freeway . . .”
“And your point?”
“It’s weird, don’t you think?”
I shake my head. “It is what it is.”
“I hate that saying.”
“Me too.”
“I’m ordering two drinks tonight. Just an FYI.” She flips a page in her menu, studying her options.
“Two? You lush.” I scan the bar area for our server. We’ve been seated for five minutes now, and I’m starving and I haven’t seen a single server in sight. A group of people are huddled in the corner, and every so often laughter erupts.
“What’s going on over there?” Daphne peers over her menu, squinting toward the group of people.
“I saw a sign by the door when we came in. Palm reader or something.”
“Palm reader?”
“It’s just some stupid gimmick bars use to lure people in. Come for a palm reading, stay for a drink. Or two.”
“I want my palm read.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Is it free?”
“I think so, but it’s also fake, so it’s a huge fucking waste of time.”
“Have you ever had your palm read?”
“Never.”
“Then how do you know it’s fake?”
“Because I know everything. I’m a know-it-all, remember?”
She rolls her eyes and drops the menu. “I’m going over there.”
If I’ve learned anything about Daphne Rosewood in our short time together, it’s that once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her. Within seconds she’s clear across the bar, standing in line for a palm reading.
Pulling in a deep breath, I slide out of the booth and join her. I want to hear what this scammer says because God forbid she tells Daphne to go out and buy a grand worth of lottery tickets on the second Wednesday of next month . . . and she actually does it. These people tell you what you want to hear. I learned that a couple of summer ago in Rome, when a gypsy read my “fortune” and declared that I was going to be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams by the time I was twenty-five.
Twenty-five came and went, and I was just just some random guy posing for book covers making a comfortable living.
“Oh, hello,” she says when she sees me. Her lips pull wide and the white of her smile brightens the dark. “Decide to get a reading, did we?”
“Nope.” I fold my arms across my chest and pull my shoulders back. “Just making sure you don’t get ripped off.”
“How could I get ripped off? It’s free.”
I shrug. “They have ways. It’s what they do. She might try to sell you some kind of potion or some shit.”
Daphne bursts out laughing, covering her mouth. The man standing behind her cranks his head to shoot her a dirty look. Apparently people in this town take their psychic palm readers very seriously.
“I would so buy a potion from her,” Daphne says.
“Wait, what?”
“Where else, in this country, can you get an actual potion? A potion!” She punches my arm, her face lit. “Do you know how freaking awesome that sounds?”
“I don’t even know if she makes potions, I was just saying. She’s got bills to pay and there’s no such thing as a free lunch, so just . . .”
“Cristiano. Stop.” She places her palm flat on my chest. “I’m a big girl. I can handle this.”
“Who’s next?” the woman calls her, her accent vaguely Romanian, though it could very well be fake.
Daphne steps forward and takes a seat at a round table covered in a lace cloth. A flickering candle rests between them as well as a deck of Tarot cards and a crystal ball. If Daphne believes in any of this shit, I’m going to be really fucking disappointed.
“Palm or tarot?” the psychic asks, peering down her wire-frame glasses. Wild gray waves cascade down her shoulders, and she’s wearing some sort of purple velvet dress. Her fingers are covered in giant rings with various crystals, ruby, and emerald centers, and bangle bracelets clink around her wrists when she moves her hands.
“Palm, please.” Daphne is beaming. She’s excited about this. Her hand flies to the center of the table, palm-side up, and she shoots me a wink.
“Ah, yes. Okay.” The woman holds Daphne’s hand in her own, examining it, rolling it from side to side and lifting it closer to her vision. “Very interesting.”
“What is it?” Daphne asks, eyes flicking from her palm to the lady and back.
The woman traces the pad of her finger along Daphne’s ring finger. “This. This tells me you’re very creative. You’re very left-brained. You think outside the box. Abstract.”
Daphne’s smile fades, maybe from shock. The lady is one-for-one.
“This line here, between your index and pointer finger,” the psychic says. “Tells me you’re the baby of the family. I’m guessing . . . fourth child?”
Daphne’s jaw hangs, though she says nothing.
“This line here,” she says, “these are your children. Well, looks like you’re only going to have one. A little girl. No time soon. You’ll have her later in life.”
“What else do you see?” Daphne scoots forward, even more invested than she was a moment ago.
“This is your marriage line.” The woman drags her nail down the center of her palm. “You’ll only get married once, but it will be forever.” Closing her eyes, the woman says, “You will marry a man you’ve already met. He is your soulmate, but you don’t know it yet.”
Daphne bites her lower lip, concentrating on the psychic’s face, clinging to her every word. “You can tell that by looking at my palm?”
“Anything else?” Daphne lifts her brows, hopeful.
With her eyes on Daphne’s palm, she smiles slowly. “Yes, you’re going to have a long life. I see here you’ll live until your upper eighties.”
Daphne pulls her hand back, pressing it against her chest. “Thank you.”
“Young man, would you like to go next?” The psychic turns to me with a smirk on her face. I’m sure she’s been doing this long enough that she can spot a skeptic from a mile away.
“Do it!” Daphne nudges me closer to the table.
“No, thank you.” I back away.
“Come on. What do you have to lose? She was spot on with me,” Daphne says. “She’s legit.”
I don’t want to offend this woman, and I don’t want to cause a scene. A group of women standing behind are mumbling to each other, probably complaining that I’m holding up the line.
“I’ll pass,” I say.
“Please? Where’s your sense of adventure?” Daphne presses her hands into prayer formation and stands on her toes.
Fuck. She has a point.
But I still don’t believe in this shit.
“Fine.” I yank the chair out and take a seat, placing my palm on the center of the table.
“No, no.” The woman lifts her nose, her lips pursed. “I won’t be reading your palm.”
The second I go to stand, she places her hand over mine.
“Sit. Stay,” she says, like I’m a goddamned dog. “I won’t read your palm. But you’re getting a reading.”
The woman presses her fingers against her temples, scrunching her face and closing her eyes tight.
“He is sorry,” she says.
“Who?” I fold my arms, chuffing. “There are a lot of people with a lot of reasons to be sorry.”
“He is sorry he could not be the father you deserved. But he is happy for you. He is proud. You make him proud. You all do.”
There’s a tightness in my throat. A burn in my chest. My eyes water. Hell, I didn’t even know they could do that. Can’t remember the last time I shed a tear over anyone or anything. Sure as hell have never cried over that drunk bastard, at least not in my adult life. As a kid, I was too young to be broken. As a teenager, I was too rebellious to care. As an adult, I’m too intelligent to waste my time mourning that sorry son of a bitch who couldn’t keep a roof over our heads or his hands off my mother.
“Also, are you going to a wedding soon? I’m being told there’s a wedding and that you’re a very important part of it.” She cocks her head to the side, peering down her nose. “I feel like you have reservations about this marriage, but it’s important that you show your support to the bride and groom. Their day isn’t about you.”
Chills run up and down my spine and my arms are covered in gooseflesh.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” I rise, pushing the chair out, and make my way back to the booth.
Chapter 12
Daphne
My cheap ballpoint pen drags along a pad of hotel paper, my mind ignoring the bright blue logo across the top. Making crosshatch after crosshatch, I sketch Cristiano’s likeness, and when I’m done, I’ve captured his mood.
The sullen look on his face.
The furrowed brow.
The flare of his nostrils as he exhales.
He’s seated beside me, staring at the flickering hotel TV, though I’m pretty positive he’s doing anything but paying attention.
“What are you thinking about?” I break the silence between us.
He’s been in a mood ever since his psychic reading. Maybe he’s thinking about his late father? Maybe he’s thinking about the wedding he’s trying to get to? I have no idea because he’s been quiet since dinner, offering little more than a few, “Mm hms,” and grunted yesses when I try to engage in conversation.
Cristiano’s chest rises and falls as he pulls in a deep breath, like I’ve woken him from a trance, and then he turns to me, his gaze narrowing on my face first and then falling to the pad of paper in my lap.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Handing it off, I say, “It’s you.”
He pulls it closer, examining my masterpiece. “You did this?”
“Who else would’ve done it?” I half-chuckle.
“I mean, you did this with a cheap hotel pen and pad of paper?” He scratches his temple, staring at his sketched image. “I’m impressed. It looks so . . . real. But do I really look this pissed off?”
I swipe the drawing from him and nod.
“Yeah. You do. You mad about something?” Before he answers, I sign my name in the corner and hand it back. “Here. Keep it. Maybe someday when I’m a famous artist, it’ll be worth something to someone.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. It’s good to see him smile. He hasn’t smiled in hours.
“Not going to answer my question?” I circle back to that.
“Not mad, just thinking.”
“About?”
He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip and turning his attention to the TV screen once more. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions, Daphne?”
My lips curl. “Pretty much everyone since the dawn of time. Yes. I ask questions. It’s what I do. There’s nothing wrong with being inquisitive, but since you’re not in the mood to tell me what you were thinking about, forget I asked.”
Gripping my pen, I scan the room for something else to sketch. I’m bored. And despite the fact that we’ve been driving all day, I’m not nearly as tired as I expected to be. Drawing relaxes me, and tonight it’s my Ambien.
“I’m not mad,” he says a few beats later, exhaling with a soft groan. “Just thinking about things . . . people, mostly. People you don’t know. Things you don’t know about. My thoughts would bore the hell out of you.”
“I doubt that.”
“Anyway, we’re getting up in six hours.” He shuts off the TV before reaching for the lamp by the bedside. The room has two queen-sized beds, and the plan was not to sleep in the same bed tonight, but he hopped on mine earlier because I had a better view of the thirty-two-inch flat screen.
Scooting down, he shoves two pillows under his neck and clasps his hands over his chest, staring at the popcorn ceiling.
“Oh, um.” I place my pen and pad on my nightstand and click off my lamp. “I could take the other bed if you want.”
“I thought the other bed was your bed.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just thought since I put my stuff over on this side of the room . . .” I exhale, placing one foot on the floor. His silence is making this awkward. Or maybe I’m making this awkward. I seem to be good at that these days.
“Fuck it. We can both sleep in this bed.” He pulls the covers down and scoots over.
Fighting a smirk, I say, “Don’t act like you’re annoyed. It’s not like you’re doing me a favor. There’s another bed, and I’m perfectly capable of sleeping by myself for the first time in days.”
The AC kicks on behind me, sending a quick chill into the air. I have to admit; it’s been nice sleeping next to someone for the first time in a long time. And tonight is our last night together. Forever.
“Okay, while you’re over there weighing your options, I’m going to be over here sleeping,” he says, rolling over. He punches the pillow, tucking it under his neck and situating his body under the blankets, silently conveying a “now or never” message.
Sucking in a lungful of stale, air-conditioned air, I climb under the covers beside him. There’s a dent in the blanket marking the space between us void of human contact. You could fit another person in that space, easily.
The sliver of light between the drawn hotel curtains illuminates our section of the room and highlights the contour of his rounded, mus
cled shoulders, and his body slightly shifts as he breathes steady, quiet breaths.
The AC unit kicks off, bringing silence to our room, and I immediately miss the droning hum because I’m wide awake, and white noise would be welcome. Rolling to my side and facing away from him, I close my eyes and try to relax. I’d love to text Delilah right now, but it’s late back home and I’m sure she passed out hours ago.
Moving to my back, I can’t seem to get comfortable. I stare at the ceiling, whipping my attention toward the curtains, when I see flashing red and blue bleeding through. Someone must’ve been pulled over in the parking lot.
Exhaling, I twist my body back toward Cristiano, burying my cheek against the cool, white pillow, only this time he’s facing me, eyes wide open.
“Daphne,” he says, voice low and calm. “Go to sleep.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, you’re not. You’re tossing and turning. Shut your mind off and close your eyes. You should be exhausted by now.”
He’s such a know-it-all.
“I think it’s that rum and Coke from earlier. It had caffeine in it.”
“You mean the two rum and Cokes?” he corrects.
“Yeah. I’m wired now.”
“Just try.” He closes his eyes, pulling in a breath and pushing it through his nostrils like he’s frustrated with me. I know he’s tired. I should be more compassionate. I should hop over to the other bed and let him get some rest. He did most of the driving today, but it was purely by accident. The first day we had a system. A schedule. Today we played most of our stops by ear, and we got better gas mileage than we expected in Nebraska and Iowa because it was so flat, so we only had to fill up twice.
A gradual relaxation claims his expression, and I get the sense that he’s well on his way to dreamland right now, so I take the opportunity to stare at him. Really stare at him. I study his features, mentally sketching them out. The curve of his jaw. The hint of a dimple in his chin that I hadn’t noticed until now. His chiseled cheekbones. The tufts of thick dark hair that hang over his forehead. His perfect brows. Those long, chocolate-hued lashes. Those lips. Those full lips with the cupid’s bow arch.
Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 10
