Driven By Fate(44)

“And what’s preventing you from making your own dinner? Are your opposable thumbs in the shop?” Laughter rumbled in the room. “Fine, I’ll heat you up some leftovers, but someone pays to have my cab cleaned.”

Francesca started toward the refrigerator, but didn’t get three feet before being yanked to a halt. By him. His hand was still wrapped around hers, refusing to let go. Every eye in the room was trained on him; he could feel them, but he couldn’t seem to pry his fingers from hers. They’d only been standing in the room for one minute and he already had more questions than he’d walked in with. Why wasn’t Francesca at wine and recipe night? Did no one invite her? If he wasn’t here, would she have been sitting inside the dark house all by herself? The questions must have shown in his eyes, because she tilted her head, not the least bit uncomfortable with his behavior, more curious than anything. Instead of trying to pull away, she leaned down and kissed his wrist.

“Do you want some spaghetti?”

He did. He wanted to eat something she’d prepared. More than anything. But he didn’t belong in that kitchen and they both knew it. Coming down the stairs, he’d not given a f*ck what anyone thought. Now that he stood in the middle of this scene that represented her life, he realized how little foresight he’d employed.

His hand opened and let hers go. “No, thank you. I can’t stay.”

Time slowed for a beat, then sped up, too quick for him to grasp. The men resumed their boisterous conversation as if to say, He’s not one we have to worry about. He won’t be around long. All because he’d let go of her hand? Francesca’s lashes fell, shielding her eyes as she turned and continued to the refrigerator. Porter started to follow, but the child jumped down from the counter, launching himself at Francesca. Without missing a beat, she scooped him up in a bear hug, leaning into his sticky face, obviously not caring that she’d just cleaned her hair.

“Frankie, I leaned into a pitch today at practice.” He yanked up his sleeve to reveal a baseball-sized bruise. “It hurt really bad, but I didn’t cry. I walked to first and stole second. Are you coming to my game on Saturday? The team we’re playing is undefeated. Their pitcher is eight. Eight. I told dad it wasn’t fair and he told me to grow a pair. What does that mean?”

The look she sent the men over her shoulder was incredulous and endearing. Beautiful. It sent Porter’s pulse surging through his veins. How could he enjoy it, though, from so far away? So much more than a kitchen separated them now. Why had he let her hand go? Why hadn’t he just said yes to the goddamn spaghetti?

Porter felt Joe watching him and schooled his features, but he suspected the older man had already seen too much and would only see more if he continued to stand there, gaping at Francesca. This was her life—high-fiving the kid as he relayed an animated story while she reheated sauce on the stove, stirring with the opposite hand. Her future would look just like this. Eventually there would be a husband at the table. More kids. More bloody spaghetti. Knowing he wouldn’t be a part of it, knowing he’d be an ocean away in his gray apartment while her happiness fulfilled a prophecy she’d made as a little girl…

Too much. All too much.

“Have a good evening,” he managed, nodding at Joe, before striding from the kitchen toward the front door. I need to get away. I can’t watch. He’d made it halfway down the driveway when he heard Francesca’s voice behind him, and her jogging footsteps.

“Hey, monocle man.” He turned to catch her before she plowed into him. Until she looked up at him, breathless and gorgeous, he didn’t realize it was still raining. Droplets gathered on her eyelashes and cheeks, exactly how he’d pictured her upstairs, except she wasn’t smiling. She only looked uneasy. “Where did you go in there?”

He brushed the rain from her face, wishing like hell he were the kind of man who made her smile. “It’s not me. I don’t do spaghetti.”

“You can if you want to. You’re overthinking this.”

“Am I?”

“No,” she whispered, swiping her damp hair back. “I don’t know.”

The house was lit up behind her like a beacon, yet he’d drawn her out onto the dark street, in a downpour. The symbolism of that wasn’t lost on him. “Please, go back inside before you get sick.” He leaned down and kissed her wet lips. “I will see you tomorrow, Francesca.”

A relieved sound puffed out against his mouth. “I wasn’t sure.”

It tore him up, the realization that she’d thought he’d been walking away for good. Why wouldn’t she? He knew nothing of reassuring her or making promises. Bodies were outlined in the windows of the house now. The people who had the right to love her were worried. “You can be sure I would never give up time with you if I could help it. Never.” He swallowed the growing knot in his throat. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

She was still standing on the driveway in the rain when he drove away. He fought the urge to turn around—to dry her, to warm her—the entire way back to Manhattan.





Chapter Fifteen


Frankie stood at the drop-off curb at JFK Airport, one hand wrapped around the strap of her backpack, the other keeping her skirt from flying up. Of course the first day she wore a dress since eighth grade graduation happened to be the windiest day of the year. Shuttles lumbered past, police officers blew whistles, and travelers rolled luggage over the concrete sidewalk—familiar sounds that seemed foreign simply because of her daring new attire.