Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Nico straight-up body checks him. Luca dives like he's trying to snap a rib. Cal just... laughs. He's bleeding slightly from the elbow, grass in his hair, and still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“C’mon, boys,” he calls out, breathing hard but tone still cocky. “Is that all you’ve got? Thought Italians were supposed to be passionate.”

Luca lunges at him again, and Cal spins out of the way. “You sure you’re not the backup dancers? 'Cause I’m not seeing any actual defense.”

Nico growls something in Italian that isn’t a compliment.

Cal winks. “Aw, did I hurt your little feelings, Nico? Don’t worry—I’ll still let you be the flower girl at the wedding.”

That earns him a full-body slam into the grass.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. “He’s going to die.”

“He’s enjoying this,” Mama says, sipping her wine like this is normal.

I cross my arms, shaking my head. "Seriously?" I call out.

"You worried about me, pretty girl?" Cal teases, brushing dirt off his arms.

"I was worried about you," I say, pointing at him. "Now, I'm worried about my brothers."

I watch my mother’s expression shift into one of annoyance as Luca tackles Nico into the mud. "Are you kidding me?" she yells. "You're getting all dirty before dinner?!"

"Relax, Mama, it's fine⁠—"

"Luca!"

Luca flashes a grin. "Yes, dearest mother?"

"I swear to God, if you get mud on my tablecloth⁠—"

"Then I'll clean it!"

"You never clean anything!"

Nonna claps her hands. “Basta! Ragazzo! Origano.”

Cal jogs over, shirtless and sweaty, with grass stains on his knees and that same smug glint in his eye like he just walked off a cologne commercial called Blood & Basil.

Nonna hands him the tiniest wicker basket known to man and gestures grandly to the herb garden. “Origano.”

And then we all just... stand there. Watching.

Mama. Me. Nico. Luca. Nonna. I turn back around to see my dad and Matteo looking through the window. I hold back the groan.

All silently judging as this tall, shirtless, ex-military golden retriever of a man holds a baby basket and crouches near the herbs with the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb.

I brace myself for the inevitable mistake—but then, without hesitation, he plucks a sprig from the correct plant and walks back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Nonna gasps. “Ha capito! Eccelente!”

Nico and Luca scowl like he just passed some sacred trial they didn’t even know was happening.

Mama raises an eyebrow. “You garden?”

Cal shrugs, handing over the herbs. “No, ma’am. But I know my way around plants.”

There’s a pause.

Then my mother smiles. Not politely. Not vaguely. Warmly.

“Thank you, Callahan,” she says.

Nonna beams, practically vibrating with approval. He throws his shirt back on just in time for her to latch onto his bicep like she’s just won a prized ox at auction and starts leading him back toward the house.

“Bravo ragazzo,” she croons. “Bambini forti.”

My lungs seize. “Nonna!”

Cal’s eyebrows shoot up, but there’s that cocky little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Of course there is.

Nonna's eyes sweep over me, sharp but approving. Then she launches into a string of animated Italian, gesturing with both hands, one still gripping Cal’s arm like he might float away if she lets go.

“Era così magra da bambina—come un fagiolino! Non si poteva nemmeno distinguere dai maschi. Ma ora… guarda! Buone anche per fare bambini.”

I groan. “Nonna, no.”

Mama, ever the helpful interpreter, smiles sweetly. “She says you were such a little string bean when you were young. Couldn’t even tell you apart from the boys.”

Cal chuckles under his breath.

“She also says you’ve got good child-bearing hips now. A body ready for babies.”

I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Cal nods solemnly. "I agree."

"Oh my GOD."

Mama shakes her head, moving to the refrigerator. She pulls out a bottle of wine, examining the label before handing it to Cal—who, notably, still hasn’t managed to escape Nonna’s grip. Not that he seems to be trying. She’s latched onto his arm like he’s already part of the family, and he just… lets her. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Here, open this. And Izzy, I wish you would've told me you were bringing someone. I would've made something lighter. You always said you didn't like the heavier dishes since you gained weight."

My cheeks burn. I'd forgotten I'd made that comment to her a few months ago, during one of Evan's worst "diet suggestion" phases. It stings even more because it wasn't even true—I love Mama's heavier dishes. I was just trying to explain away why I wasn't eating as much as usual.

Before I can respond, Cal steps in smoothly.

"Actually, ma'am," he says, his voice calm but firm, "I think Izzy looks perfect exactly as she is." His eyes meet mine across the kitchen, sincere and steady. "I've always preferred women with real curves. A woman should look like a woman, not a stick figure."

Mama pauses, her spoon hovering over the sauce.

Nonna claps her hands together in delight, rapid-firing something in Italian about how handsome Cal's babies will be.

"Well," Mama says finally, her eyes landing on Cal, then me. "It's nice to hear a young man with some sense." She turns back to her cooking, but not before eyeing Cal with what can only be described as maternal appreciation.

I duck my head, embarrassed but oddly touched. Cal moves closer, his hand finding the small of my back, a gentle pressure that grounds me. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "I meant every word," he murmurs, so only I can hear.

Mama flaps a dishcloth at us. "Out, out of my kitchen! Dinner in five minutes!"

"Dad," I say, suddenly appearing at my dad's side. "Can you please control Nonna?" Because she’s currently trying to grab ahold of Cal’s bicep again.

Dad just sips his wine, watching Tony Soprano and Lady Gaga battle over a scrap of prosciutto he definitely snuck them. "Controlling Nonna is like controlling the tides, sweetheart. Impossible."

Cal lets Nonna hold onto his arm again before he smiles and leans down to place a gentle kiss against my temple, whispering, "All is good."

We make our way into the dining room, and I grimace, because I know that the worst is yet to come.

Mama is yelling at everyone to wash their hands, Nonna is accusing Luca of trying to "steal" an extra meatball, and Dad is just standing off to the side, drinking his wine and letting the chaos unfold. The dogs weave between everyone's legs, barking at the slightest movement, and I swear I see Dad slip them both bits of cheese under the table.

Nico slides into place next to Cal, immediately flexing his arm. "So, you think you're strong, huh?"

Cal raises an eyebrow. "I'm alright."

"Arm wrestle. Now."

I close my eyes briefly. "Nico, not at the table."

"What, scared he'll lose?"

Cal shrugs. "I'm game."

Before I can protest, they've cleared a space, elbows planted firmly on the table. Dad edges closer, suddenly interested. Even Matteo looks up from helping his wife settle the baby.

"Hundred bucks says Cal takes him down in ten seconds," Matteo murmurs to Luca.

Luca snorts. "Hundred says Nico wins."

Mama slams a serving dish onto the table. "Not near my good dishes!"

They ignore her completely.

"Three, two, one—GO!"

Muscles strain. Veins pop. Cal's teeth clench with concentration as Nico grins, pushing hard.

The whole table is cheering, shouting, making bets. Even Mama has stopped complaining and is watching with barely concealed interest.

For a moment, it looks like Nico might actually win—Cal's arm tilts slightly backward—but then Cal applies pressure, and Nico's arm slams onto the table with enough force to rattle the water glasses.

And tip over a bottle of red wine.

The bottle topples in slow motion, splashing across the pristine white tablecloth before anyone can react.

"NICOLO ANTONIO RUSSO!" Mama shrieks, hands flying to her cheeks in horror.

Luca bursts out laughing. Matteo is already sopping up wine with his napkin. Nonna crosses herself, muttering about the Virgin Mary and stains.

"That tablecloth is from Capri!" Mama wails. "A family heirloom!"

Nonna nods solemnly, saying it belonged to a Roman emperor and is very sacred.

I lock eyes with Cal, who looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

"Um," I whisper, "it's from Pottery Barn, circa 2015."

He bites his lip to keep from smiling.

Dad, ever the peacemaker, calmly refills his glass from what remains in the bottle. "It needed to be replaced anyway, Maria."

"Lorenzo!"

"What?" He shrugs. "The dogs chewed a hole in the corner last month."

"They did WHAT?"

As if on cue, Tony Soprano and Lady Gaga dart under the table, barking furiously at the commotion. Dad whistles softly, and they immediately settle at his feet, where I'm sure more forbidden food will find its way into their mouths.

Cal? Cal looks like he's enjoying the show.

Which is insane, because this? This is a nightmare. He's about to undergo a full-blown hazing ritual, and I have no doubt in my mind that my brothers have already plotted their attack. Why, why, why did I think it was a good idea to invite my super hot, super protective, amazing...man....because I'm seriously not sure what we are yet, to meet my family? I need to not text while drunk anymore. In fact, there should be a feature on phones that if you misspell more than three words in a sentence, your phone locks you out for 12 hours to sleep it off.

We all pitch in to clean up the spill and before my brothers can sink their claws in further, Mama claps her hands, calling for silence. "Okay, let's say grace."

We all bow our heads. Mama starts, her voice soft and reverent. "Dear Lord, we thank You for this meal, for this family, and for the blessings You have given us."

I peek up slightly, just in time to see Nonna making the sign of the cross.

Mama continues. "We are grateful for the food before us, for the love around this table, and for the health of our children."

A pause. Mama doesn't stop there. Oh no. Because she hasn't prayed for her three single children yet.

"And Lord," she continues, voice dripping with dramatic sincerity, "we continue to pray for the three single ones to find someone who can put up with them."

I peek up through my lashes. Matteo's head is bowed, but his lips are twitching. Luca is grinning like an asshole. Nico is already looking at me like he knows exactly what's coming next.

Mama keeps going.

"But, Lord, we also thank You, because perhaps—perhaps—there is hope for one of them."

I internally groan.

Cal’s hand slides beneath the tablecloth, fingers brushing up my thigh. It starts slow, a stroke, then a heated touch, before he finally curls two fingers into a monkey bite—that brutal tickle attack right behind the knee that instantly short-circuits your entire nervous system.

I jolt in my seat, choking back a laugh and a scream all at once. My knee jerks. The table rattles. My whole body tenses in mortified restraint.

He doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps his face perfectly neutral, like he’s deep in reverent reflection.

"And if it is truly Your will," Mama says, voice rising with spiritual conviction, "let it be known that I see the signs."

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my lips together so hard they tremble.

"Let it be known," she continues, hand dramatically lifted toward the ceiling, "that I will remain vigilant for further confirmation. That I will not waver, nor turn my eyes from the truth. That I will⁠—"

Cal’s fingers dig in just behind my knee, pinching mercilessly. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to hold it together, but it’s no use. The pressure builds until I can’t take it anymore. My leg jerks forward, slamming into the underside of the table with a loud thud. Plates rattle. Silverware jumps.

Mom gasps, eyes flying open. “A SIGN!” she cries, clutching her chest and crossing herself like we’ve just witnessed a full-blown miracle. “Did you see? The Lord has spoken!”

“Mama!”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Dad is chuckling into his wine glass. Luca and Nico are full-on losing it. Matteo at least has the decency to look apologetic—but that's probably just for show.

And Cal? Cal is just watching me squirm, like he's enjoying every goddamn second of this.

Mama simply folds her hands together, looking pleased.

"And let us all say⁠—"

"Amen!" Matteo interjects quickly, clearly trying to save me.

"Amen," everyone echoes.

I am going to die. Right here. Right now. Of pure, unfiltered embarrassment.

And Cal? Cal just leans over, a whisper meant only for me—"Your mom is relentless."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, groaning. "You have no idea."

The first ten minutes of dinner are almost normal, which makes me extremely uncomfortable, because I know all hell is going to break loose.

Plates are being passed around, wine glasses are clinking, Nonna is sneaking an extra serving of pasta onto Cal's plate while muttering something about him being a "strong man" who needs "more food." Cal thanks her in perfect Italian, and I swear to God, I see her swoon.

Then my brothers get their opening.

"So, Callahan," Luca starts, twirling his fork between his fingers, his expression pure menace. "What are your intentions with our sister?"

I take one sip and immediately regret it. Coughing, sputtering, dying. Excellent. Death by wine and overprotective brother.

Cal doesn't even blink.

"My intentions?" he echoes smoothly.

Matteo nods, serious as ever. "Are you planning on sticking around?"

Cal is completely unfazed by his question. He doesn’t even hesitate. "Yes," he says simply. "I am."

Luca narrows his eyes, clearly disappointed that Cal isn't squirming. "So, you got a solid job?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes," Cal answers.

"Good benefits?"

"Yes."

"Debt?"

"Nope."

"Criminal record?"

"Clean."

Nico raises an eyebrow. "Not even a little?"

Cal takes a sip of his wine. "Not that anyone can prove."

Matteo nearly drowns in his drink. Dad is just sitting back, watching with pure amusement. I dig my nails into my thigh, wondering when exactly my life became a reality show.

"So," Nico continues, spearing a meatball. "You were military, yeah?"

Cal nods.

"Did you kill anyone?"

I slam my fork down. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Nico shrugs. "It's a valid question."

"No, it's not! That's a completely insane thing to ask someone you just met at the dinner table!"

Cal just chuckles, setting his glass down. "Yes."

Silence.

Luca’s mouth drops open. Matteo mutters something under his breath. Nico looks way too impressed. Mama's eye twitches. Nonna, unfazed, simply pats Cal's bicep and tells him that it’s “good to have strong men in the family.”

I bury my face in my hands.

"Izzy," Mama hisses, like I somehow caused all of this.

"Don't look at me!" I exclaim. "They're the ones interrogating him!"

"Oh, sweetheart." Cal's voice is pure amusement as he leans over, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to my temple. "They're not interrogating me."

"They're trying."

Nico eyes Cal's plate. "So what's your family like? You eat gravy every Sunday growing up like us?"

Cal shrugs casually. "Not exactly."

"What'd you eat?"

"Ragu."

The entire table goes dead silent. Even the dogs stop their incessant yapping.

Luca's fork clatters against his plate. Matteo's eyebrows shoot up so far they nearly disappear into his hairline. Mama gasps, hand flying to her chest like she's having heart palpitations. Nonna crosses herself three times in quick succession, muttering rapid-fire prayers.

"I'm so sorry," Nico finally says, utterly sincere.

Cal looks at me, confusion written all over his face.

I bite back a laugh. “In this house, jarred sauce is blasphemy.”

“Bestemmia!” Nonna declares, jabbing her fork in Cal’s direction. Her voice is harsh, but her eyes are gleaming with affection. Then she adds something else, waving her hand dismissively before pointing at his plate.

“But we’ll fix you. You’re family now. You’ll learn.”

The words settle somewhere deep in my chest. They’ve never said that about Evan. Not once. And hearing Nonna say it—to Cal, who’s only been around for five minutes—it hits me harder than I want to admit.

After that, dinner somehow manages to get even more chaotic. Nonna keeps insisting Cal eat more, piling his plate so high I’m surprised it doesn’t tip the table. Nico keeps trying to challenge him to increasingly ridiculous contests. Luca keeps baiting him with loaded questions, trying to trick him into saying something incriminating while Matteo watches with amused detachment.

Dad just watches it all unfold with a smug smile, sipping his wine like it's the best show he's seen in years, occasionally sneaking food to Tony and Gaga, who have stationed themselves permanently under his chair.

But the best part? The absolute best part? Cal handles it all effortlessly.

He deflects Nico's challenges with easy smiles and one-liners. He dodges Luca's traps with smooth, calculated answers. And he listens to Nonna like she's the Pope herself, nodding along with every one of her stories while simultaneously finishing an entire extra plate of food just to make her happy.

I just sit there, watching in awe, trying to figure out when exactly this man became so effortlessly woven into my life. At some point, I catch Matteo watching me. When I glance over, he just gives me that look—amused, all-knowing—like he’s already figured something out I haven’t.

I scowl. "What?"

He shrugs.

"Nothing."

And then, under his breath, he mutters⁠—

"I like him."

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Because if Matteo likes him? That means this man is officially family.

EVERY WORD SHE THINKS TURNS HER ON HAS BEEN MINE.

CAL

The drive home is quiet.

Not uncomfortably so, but quiet in a way that tells me Izzy's thinking. Processing. Probably replaying every chaotic second of dinner with her family, cringing at each over-the-top comment her mom made, each inappropriate joke her brothers told, probably wondering if I had a miserable time.

She couldn't be more wrong.

I loved it.

It was loud, messy, hilarious—nothing like my solitary existence—but damn if it wasn't a refreshing change from my quiet routine.

And maybe it makes me realize an important truth, too.

That she's right and I really do need to call my dad.

Izzy clears her throat beside me, shifting in her seat like she's working up the nerve to speak. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, watching as she presses her lips together, debating. I save her the trouble.

"I had fun," I say, breaking the silence.

Her head snaps toward me so fast I almost laugh. "You did?" she asks, completely incredulous, like I just told her I enjoy getting waterboarded for fun.

"Yeah, I did."

Her brows pull together like she doesn't quite believe me. "But they're so...much."

"They are," I agree. "But I liked it. They care about you. That much is obvious."

She huffs, shaking her head. "They're nosy as hell, is what they are."

I chuckle, thinking about her brothers cornering me outside. "They're protective," I amend. "We agree on at least one priority."

She raises an eyebrow. "And that is?"

I glance at her. "Our mutual hatred for Evan."

She laughs, rolling her eyes. "God, they wouldn't let that go."

"Can you blame them?" I ask, turning onto her street. "They want to make sure you're taken care of. That you're happy."

Her lips press together, and a quiet wistfulness settles over her face—a softness I’m not sure I’ve seen before, or know how to name.

Then, she exhales, shaking her head with a small, amused smile.

"Pretty girl," I say, looking at her from the corner of my eye.

She turns to look at me and that's when I freeze. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, and I don't need to fully look at her to know she's watching me now.

"Why do you call me that?" she asks, her voice light, curious.

Fuck.

How long have I been calling her that out loud? I just got so comfortable with it. It's second nature. I don't even think about it. It's just who she is to me.

I swallow, forcing a casual shrug. "It just feels right."

She tilts her head slightly. "Feels right?"

I chance a glance at her. "You're my pretty girl," I say simply, because it's the truth. "Why wouldn't I call you that?"

Her breath catches, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. And then, in a small voice, she asks, "What are we to each other?"

I slow to a stop at the light, turning fully toward her. "As far as I'm concerned?" I tilt my head. "You're mine."

Her eyes widen, like she wasn't expecting that answer. "Don't you think that's a little fast?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I lift an eyebrow, watching her closely. "I don't know, Izzy," I murmur. "You tell me. Is it too fast for you? Because I'll take it as slow as you need."

She swallows, looking away for a beat, her fingers playing with the hem of her dress.

"No," she finally says, shaking her head. "I just...I want to be fair to you. I don't want to treat you like some amazing rebound."

"Amazing, huh?"

She groans, smacking my arm. "That's what you took from that?"

I chuckle, turning back toward the road as the light changes.

"Just making sure I heard you correctly."

She crosses her arms, huffing dramatically, but I see the small smile playing on her lips.

"You're infuriating."

"I've been called worse."

She snorts, and we fall into a comfortable silence as I pull into her apartment complex.

I shift the car into park and glance at her, watching as she twists her fingers in her lap, like she's hesitating.

She turns to me, her eyes soft. "You're gonna stay, right?"

I tilt my head. "Is that what you want?"

She doesn't answer.

Not with words.

Instead, she leans in and presses her lips to mine.

Bold. Decisive. Confident.

I love it.

I slide a hand into her hair, pulling her closer, savoring her taste, feeling her desire as she presses against me, giving herself over completely.

When she finally pulls away, her breath is uneven, her fingers still curled into my shirt.

"I could never," I murmur, brushing my lips against hers again, "and will never say no to you."

Izzy's apartment feels different now.

Familiar in a way that I like too much. Comfortable in a way that makes me feel like I belong here. We step inside, and she presses a soft kiss to my cheek before whispering, "Be right back."

She disappears into the bedroom. I watch her go before heading to the kitchen. I grab a bottle of wine, pour two glasses, and settle onto her sofa, rolling the stem of the glass between my fingers as I pull out my phone.

First order of business—a text to my dad.

Happy Easter. How about a call soon?

I stare at it, thumb hovering over the send button.

I press send.

Baby steps.

I exhale, setting the phone down, stretching my legs out in front of me.

The device buzzes almost immediately. I glance down expecting one of my guys from the store, because I don't really get many texts these days.

It's not.

It's Izzy.

Messaging Caleb.

I sit up slightly, my grip tightening around the glass. Yesterday, Caleb gave her an instruction. A task. He told her to take a picture of herself when she was feeling confident. I didn't push. Didn't remind her. I figured she'd take her time.

But now—here she is.

I tap into the chat, watching the dots appear as she types.

Pretty Girl

hi

Caleb

hi, pretty girl

it's taken me some time to complete your task

I noticed

shhhh, okay, here goes

She's nervous. She doesn't need to be, but I fucking love it. I watch the dots bounce again.

i think i'm about to be intimate with cal

I freeze. Then—I smirk.

Intimate, huh?

I can practically hear her exasperated sigh through the screen.

YES!

and i picked out an outfit

Yes. I wanna see, pretty girl.

The dots bounce, a moment passes, and then the photo comes through.

She's standing in front of her full-length mirror, her phone in one hand, her other resting lightly on her hip.

She's in red lace.

A sheer, delicate corset that hugs her curves in all the right places. Straps crisscrossing over her shoulders, dipping between her perfect breasts. Lace panties—thin, tiny, sinful—attach to garters clipped to sheer thigh-high stockings. Her juicy thighs are spilling over the top just begging to be squeezed.

Her lips are slightly parted. Her cheeks flushed. Her hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves. And the way she's looking at herself⁠—

Fuck.

I shift, adjusting my cock, gritting my teeth against the instant, overwhelming need flooding through me. She's so fucking perfect. And she's finally starting to see it.

caleb?

Fuck, pretty girl, I was just jizzing in my pants from the sight of this.

OMG STOP OKAY I HAVE TO GO

Wait!

WHAT??

Do you wanna use the vibrator and invite me? It could be a threeway.

omg goodbye forever lol

I chuckle, shaking my head, my chest tight with so many fucking emotions I don't even know where to put them.

And then, I hear it. The soft creak of a bedroom door. I don't need to turn around. I already know what's on the other side. I close out of the app, setting my phone face-down, adjusting the growing ache in my jeans. I look up and there she is.

She lingers in the doorway in the outfit she sent me. I let out a slow breath, pulse hammering as I take her in. She moves just enough to show the nerves beneath the surface, but her gaze lifts, reading every inch of my face.

She knows. And she’s daring me to show it.

“Fuck me,” I breathe out, unable to stop the words.

She steps forward, slightly. Her lips curve into a small, teasing smile.

"So?" she murmurs, tilting her head.

"What do you think?"

Am I really going to do this with her? Because I shouldn't. I told myself I wouldn't. Not until I came clean. Not until I told her the truth. That every seductive word I've whispered in her ear as Caleb—it's been me. That every time I turned her on, made her moan, built her confidence through the phone and through that vibrator—it's been me.

I need to be honest with her now. I should pause this moment and confess before we cross this line. I should speak the truth.

But then I look at her, standing in the doorway, wearing that lace, that fucking sinful lace, her body on display, her confidence soaring, her lips quirked in a teasing smile as she waits for me.

And I can't.

If I tell her now—it could ruin this.

Not just for me. For her.

For the first time in her life, she's feeling herself. She's standing there in that outfit, owning it, showing me exactly what she wants, stepping into this version of herself that isn't weighed down by insecurity or doubt or fear. If I stop this—if I put any hesitation in her head, make her feel like this isn't exactly where she should be right now—I'll be taking that away from her.

And I can't fucking do that to her.

Not now.

Not tonight.

I inhale, steadying my voice, forcing the words out, deep and controlled.

"Come here, pretty girl."