Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  Sinking into the edge of my bed, I let my phone drop to the covers. A Technicolor rainbow of emotions washes over me. The fact that he was talking to someone about me gives me a sliver of hope. But why was he drinking? Was he upset about Joey’s wedding? And did he only ruminate about me because it was too late for him and Joey?

  My phone vibrates softly against my comforter, sending a hitch to my breath. Reaching down, I flip the screen over and see a strange number calling. I don’t recognize the area code, and I’m not sure who’d be calling me at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, but I decide to answer.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “May I speak to Daphne Rosewood?” a man’s voice responds on the other end.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Daphne, this is Kurt Greenleaf, professor at Seaview College of Fine Arts,” he says, the familiarity of his voice returning. “Sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I’m getting ready to fly out of the country, and I wanted to reach out to you before I left. Do you have a moment?”

  Pulling my legs onto the bed, I wrap my arms around them and drag in a deep breath. “Yes, I have a moment.”

  “The hiring committee has met,” he says, his voice just as stoic as I remember. I can picture him so clearly, seated in the center of the table at my interview. He didn’t smile once. And he asked all the hard questions. I was pretty sure when we were done that this man hated me for reasons unknown. “And we’d like to offer you an assistant professor position teaching our introductory drawing classes.”

  My hand flies to my mouth, and I feel it arch beneath my palm as I grin wide.

  “Thank you,” I manage to sputter. “Thank you so much. I accept. And I’m honored.”

  “Good, good,” he says. “The college is closed for winter break right now, but my assistant, Tina, will be in contact with you first thing Monday. Spring semester starts in three weeks, but we’d like for you to spend two weeks in Paris mentoring under Professor Halbrook. He’s teaching at our sister school, Paris Collège des Beaux-arts. Halbrook developed our drawing major, and you’ll be taking over his classes, so we’d like for you to spend some one-on-one time with him before you start. Are you able to travel overseas, Daphne? You have a passport?”

  “Yes,” I nod. “And I’m very familiar with Paris.”

  “All right then. Like I said, Tina will get a hold of you tomorrow. She’ll likely have a mountain of paperwork for you to complete, and we’ll have you on the next plane to Paris,” he says. “I’d like to apologize for the timing of all of this. We weren’t anticipating this vacancy. It’s not common practice to do everything on such short notice, but we appreciate your flexibility, and we sincerely look forward to having you on board, Ms. Rosewood.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I can’t tell you how excited I am.”

  My entire body buzzes to life the second I end the call. With trembling hands and a smile that takes up my entire face, I run downstairs to tell my mom the news. She squeals and wraps me in her arms, and we do a little happy dance. And in that sliver of a moment, I temporarily forget about Cristiano.

  I forget about the voicemail.

  I forget he needs a ride.

  I forget that he poured his heart out to some stranger last night in a way that gave her the impression he had some sort of feelings for me.

  “Okay,” I say, stepping away from my mom. “We can celebrate later. I’m going to get ready so I can head over to the hospital and love on that baby some more.”

  “Yes, go,” Mom says, smiling proud. “We’ll celebrate tonight.”

  Tromping back upstairs, there’s a twist in my belly. An ache. A curious sadness. My thoughts return to Cristiano again, drowning in the what-if and what-might-have-been. Part of me wants to believe I was wrong about him. Part of me wants to give him a chance to explain. But the rest of me, the overwhelming majority of me, is on high alert because truth is, he lied by omitting the facts.

  I won’t get hurt again. And I knew from the moment I laid eyes on Cristiano Amato that he was a heartbreaker.

  Stripping out of my clothes, I run the shower and step in, letting the hot water saturate my hair and drip down my body in slow, grazing streams. Within minutes, I’ve washed away the day, and I’m sure of only two things:

  It’s a new year.

  And I need a fresh start.

  Chapter 27

  Cristiano

  “I don’t think she’s coming.” Ashley peeks out of her living room curtain, peering into the parking lot below. “Sorry.”

  I fire off a text to Fabrizio. First I’m going to ask him to pick me up, then I’m going to rip him a new one for ditching me. He was my fucking ride last night.

  “I knew she wouldn’t,” I say. My phone buzzes in my hand. Fabrizio writes back saying he’ll be here in an hour.

  “So what happened with you and this girl?” Ashley pries, arms folded and head cocked. “I mean, you rambled on and on about how wonderful she was, but not once did you tell me why she wasn’t speaking to you.”

  Raking my hand along my tightened jaw, I stare at the wall in front of me. “Don’t know.”

  “Sure you do,” Ashley says. “I’m sure you said something or did something. Think.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I met her last Tuesday. Honestly, I don’t even know this girl. I was just drunk last night. And seeing Joey get married and how happy she looked . . . it made me think about Daphne.”

  “Really? You don’t know her that well? You sure seemed like you did.”

  “We were in a car for three straight days. We did a lot of talking. Or she did. She talks a lot. And asks a lot of questions. Guess we got to know each other pretty well. But whatever.” I rise, wishing I was wearing anything other than a tuxedo right now. I hate these fucking penguin suits. “It’s over. She wants nothing to do with me. Life goes on.”

  Ashley’s mouth bunches at the corner. “You’ll meet someone else someday. I’m sure the perfect girl is out there waiting for you to find her.”

  I laugh through my nose. For a time this past week, I was convinced Daphne was the perfect girl for me.

  “Yeah, something like that,” I say.

  She moves to the kitchen, grabbing her purse and jingling her keys. “I have to go to work now . . . I was going to kick you out. Make you wait outside. But since your ride isn’t here yet, I guess you can hang out. Just lock the door on your way out. And don’t steal anything or my boyfriend will literally kick your ass.”

  Smirking, I promise her, “I won’t touch a damn thing, Ashley.”

  She looks at me through the corner of her eye, her mouth drawing into a slow smile. “All right. You take care, okay? Chin up and all that.”

  In an instant, she’s gone. And I’m alone with nothing but the thoughts that fill my pounding head.

  “Ow! What’d you do that for?” Fabrizio rubs the spot on his arm where I’ve just punched him, and I slam his car door shut.

  “That’s for ditching me last night. Some fucking brother you are.”

  He pulls out of Ashley’s parking lot like a bat out of hell, nearly side-swiping someone’s Ford, and I blame Matteo because Matteo’s the one who taught him how to drive.

  “Dude,” Fab says, “if you would’ve seen the girl I went home with . . . you’d totally understand.”

  “Grow the fuck up,” I snap, resisting the urge to smack the back of his head. He’s lucky he’s driving right now.

  “But you went home with someone, right? You hook up with that girl with the purple hair?” Fab grins wide, like he’s on the verge of high-fiving me.

  “No,” I scoff. “That was Joey’s cousin. She has a boyfriend. And I did not hook up with her.”

  “Mm hm,” he says, as if he doesn’t believe me. “Right, right.”

  “Just fucking drive.”

  “What the hell is your problem?” Fabrizio asks, coming to a hard stop at a red light. “Is this because Joey got married?”

  “No,” I spit, face
pinched. “Has nothing to do with her.”

  “Is this about that road trip girl?”

  I don’t answer. Glancing out the passenger window, I spot a billboard advertising a new international airline with direct flights out of Newark Liberty International Airport, and my next move becomes clear.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  “So just like that? You’re home for a hot minute and now you’re jetting off again?” My mom takes a seat on the edge of my bed. I’m leaning against the headboard, laptop across my legs and credit card in hand as I book my flight to Rome.

  Figured I’d crash on a few couches and make my way from Italy to Greece to France to Germany and everywhere in between. Two weeks of eating, sleeping, and drinking my way through Europe should get me back on track. Back in the right mindset.

  “Why are you always leaving?” Mom’s mouth pulls down in the corner, her voice tinged with a slight Italian accent that always feels like home to me. “Just once, I’d like for you to stay a while. I worry about you, you know. Traveling all over the world all the time, sometimes going days or weeks without checking in. It’s dangerous.”

  “Mom,” I chuff. “It’s fine. This is what I do.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re doing more running than traveling,” she says with a sigh, her dark brows arched in concern. “What are you running away from this time, Cristiano? All these years, I figured it was Joey. You took the accident harder than anyone. Even harder than Joey. She forgave you, you know? But I don’t think you ever forgave yourself. So you stayed away. Even when it hurt her, you stayed away.”

  I close the lid of my laptop and cross my arms. “I never meant to hurt her. It was just hard coming home.”

  Everything was different.

  Everything had changed.

  And it was all my fault.

  “When we forgive ourselves, we set ourselves free,” she says. “Forgive yourself, Cristiano. Forgive yourself, and your entire world will change.”

  My mother’s dark eyes soften, and her expression is pained. She hurts too. She hurts for me.

  “Stay a while this time, will you?” she asks.

  Pulling in a deep breath and letting it go, I regrettably inform her my tickets are booked.

  I watch her face fall. “All right then.”

  “I’ll come home after that,” I promise. “I’ll make it a regular thing.”

  Her mouth inches up at the sides. “I would love that, mio amore.”

  Mom rises, shuffling across the faded blue carpet of my childhood bedroom and making her way to the door.

  “Mom?” I call out.

  She turns to me, smiling, which doesn’t make what I’m about to say any easier.

  “I have to tell you something,” I say.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I never finished law school.”

  Her smile fades. “What are you talking about, Cristiano? I went to your graduation. I watched you walk. Of course you graduated.”

  Shaking my head, I say. “I paid someone I knew to put me on the list. I’d dropped out a year before that. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  She leans against the frame of the door, her gaze falling to her feet before lifting to meet mine. “You could never disappoint me. If you only knew how proud I am of you. Of all my boys . . .”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “But it hurts,” she adds. “It hurts that you didn’t think you could come to me with the truth back then.”

  “I wish I could have done it differently. Believe me. I’ve regretted it every single day.”

  She pulls in a concentrated breath, tilting her head to the side. “I know you were just trying to protect me. For that, I forgive you. But do not ever lie to your mother again.”

  “I promise.” There’s a lightness in my chest, followed by a partial release.

  “So tell me, what are you doing these days for work? Who’s footing the bill for all these travels of yours?” She folds her arms, and I find myself speechless. I didn’t prepare for that question.

  My jaw slacks as I rack my brain.

  “Do not lie to me, Cristiano.” She points a finger at me, her dark brows meeting in the middle.

  “I can’t tell you,” I say. “And that’s the truth.”

  “Is it illegal, this thing you’re doing?” She squints.

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay then.” Mom lets her hands fall to her sides. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  “I will.” I neglect to tell her that I’ll probably never be ready to tell her . . .

  “Hold on, just a moment.” Mom lifts her pointed finger and disappears, her feet carrying her lightly down the hall. I glance at my computer screen, waiting for the confirmation email with my itinerary to show up, and when I look up, I find my mother standing in the doorway with a paperback book pressed against her chest. The front of the cover is hidden by her wide-spread palm and she takes a step toward me, biting her lip like she’s fighting a smile.

  Taking careful steps my way, she stops beside me and hands over the book. The title, THE LUMBERJACK AND THE PRINCESS, is scrawled across the front in bold, red font, right across an image of myself in a red checkered, unbuttoned shirt. My jeans are slung low, so low I’m almost giving it all away, and my bronzed and oiled chest is on full display.

  “I told you I was in that romance book club, didn’t I?” she asks, speaking slowly.

  “Not that I recall.” Not once in my life have I witnessed my mother reading a romance novel.

  Clearing her throat, she says, “Yeah, well, I am. Joined it last year. Anyway, this is the book we’re going to be reading next week. I thought the man on the cover looked familiar, but when I opened it up, I saw the model’s name was Jax Diesel. Had myself a good laugh because, you know, they say everyone has a twin.”

  My cheeks burn, white-hot, but I do my best to keep a straight face.

  “But then I kept staring at this book cover, and I kept thinking . . . that’s got to be my son,” she says, bringing the image closer to her gaze. “So I went on Google and I looked up this Jax Diesel character, and imagine my surprise when I found a whole slew of his images. He even has a website. It’s very professional. Very classy. Anyway, I clicked around, looked at all the pictures. Some of them were quite, um-”

  “Mom,” I stop her. I don’t want to hear any more. “It’s me. I’m Jax Diesel. I model for book covers, and that’s how I’ve been making a living.”

  I can’t look at her.

  I don’t want to look at her.

  It’s going to be a while before I can look her in the eyes after this.

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  She’s quiet. And I don’t blame her. She just finished admitting she browsed hundreds of images of her near-naked grown adult son.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what? For making a career for yourself?” she asks.

  I force myself to meet her gaze, though I’m still cringing hard on the inside. I’m half-tempted to add, “At least I’m not making porn . . .” but I bite my tongue. I’d rather end this conversation as soon as humanly possible.

  “When are you leaving, mio amore?” she changes the subject, probably sensing my extreme discomfort in regards to this conversation, and places the book gently on my nightstand. I doubt she’ll be reading it now. Would be a little awkward, I’d think.

  “Tomorrow.” I stare at the foot of the bed, my body rigid and frozen, like it couldn’t relax even if it wanted to.

  “Well, then, you’d better start packing.”

  Glancing up at my mother, she tosses me a wink, fights a smile, and shows herself out. I’m glad one of us finds humor in this situation because I sure as hell don’t.

  Chapter 28

  Daphne

  “Hey, hey,” I tiptoe into Delilah’s hospital room Sunday morning.

  “Morning,” she whispers with a smile. Her gaze goes from the baby to me and back again. He’s
cradled in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket as he sleeps.

  “How was last night? You get any sleep?”

  She blows a swift breath past her lips and softly laughs. “Maybe a few hours off and on? He eats like his daddy. Ravenous appetite.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “They ran out to get donuts. They were supposed to bring them this morning and they forgot. They got their coffee. Forgot the sustenance.” Delilah rolls her eyes. “Men.”

  “Guess what?” I pull up a chair and scoot it closer to her bedside.

  “What?”

  “I got the job.” I lift my fingers to my mouth, pretending to bite my nails as I grin ear-to-ear.

  “What?!” Delilah’s face lights. “Daph, that’s so awesome! I’m so happy for you. When do you start?”

  “Soon,” I say. “They’re flying me to Paris this week. I’m going to mentor with some professor for a couple weeks before the semester starts.”

  “This week?” She raises a brow. “That’s insane.”

  “I know. They had to fill this spot as soon as possible. The professor who called me apologized for the last minute timing,” I say. “I don’t care though. I’m just excited to have a job.”

  “So you’re moving to California.” Delilah’s mouth purses.

  “Yeah. I’m moving to California.”

  “You’re going to be so far away.”

  “Just a plane ride,” I assure her. “You guys can visit any time.”

  “Did you know Weston’s going to be a free agent?” Delilah catches me off guard with her left-field question.

  My face pinches. “No. I didn’t. And I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Supposedly San Francisco’s got their eye on him,” she says. “At least that’s what his agent says.”

  “O . . . kay. What’s your point?”

  Her mouth creeps up in one corner and her eyes glint. “I don’t know. If you’re going to be in California and he’s going to be in California . . . maybe . . .”