Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(27)
With a final groan, I push my dark hair out of my face with slightly-damp hands and reach for a paper towel to wipe myself down. After throwing away the garbage and preparing myself with one final pep talk, I move to the door and whip it open.
I nearly trip over my own two feet when a familiar masculine voice settles along my skin, worming its way into my chest. Stopping dead in my tracks only a few steps from the door, I slowly spin around.
"I knew it was you who rushed past me out there. I could never forget that ass."
Chapter Twelve
BRADEN
“So, fill me in. Considering that you’ve been too preoccupied to make time for your old withering mother these past few weeks, I can only assume you’ve been busy to the absolute tits.” My mother wears a deep-set scowl that makes me laugh. It’s the same scowl I’ve been on the receiving end of far too many times. Ever since I turned old enough to speak or walk, really.
“You’re not old nor withering, Mom. Stop being dramatic.” I twirl a glob of spaghetti around my fork before shoving it in my mouth. After a hefty swallow, I moan, “Damn, Antonio. Give my compliments to the chef. This is fucking delicious, as always.”
My step-dad sends me a warm, appreciative smile and dips his head. Paninaro’s has been in Antonio’s family for generations, opened up by his great, great grandfather a few years after he migrated to Canada from a small town in Italy. I don’t know much more than that. The relationship that I have with my step-dad is slim, only built out of necessity and the respect he’s earned from treating my mom so well.
“You’re welcome to come here anytime, Braden,” Antonio says. “Quello che è mio è tuo.” What’s mine is yours. I know he means it, and for a flicker of time I feel guilty for not building a closer father-son relationship with the guy. He tries really hard. That has to count for something.
I serve the table a tight lipped smile. “Grazie.”
Antonio would never say it, but he appreciates the fact that I’ve tried to learn his language. I can see it in the way his green-speckled eyes shine as they stare at me afterward every Italian word I speak. Sometimes I’m rather ass at it, but I try nonetheless.
“How’s your father and his child bride?” Mom asks the question so casually, her wine glasses tipped back as she takes a small sip, eyebrow lifted. The red liquid sloshes the sides of the glass when she sets it back down on the table cloth. I try to string together a response, but fail.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” Antonio whispers, shaking his head and reaching over to place his hand on hers. “You can not call her a child bride. It is rude.”
“Is that not what she is, Tony? She is our son’s age. It’s inappropriate!”
I stare at her, lips slightly parted, unsure of what to say.
My parents got divorced when I was young. The entire thing was messy and rough for everyone, but it was nothing compared to the arguments they’ve encountered since Dad’s been with Lana. Mom doesn’t do well with change, and if my shock and confusion was anything like what my mother felt, then I would say her reaction was and is completely warranted.
It’s not that we both don’t want him to be happy. My father was my fucking role model growing up—my super hero, even. He deserves happiness more than anyone I know. But is this the way to get it? Are we keeping him from being happy? Is he just going through a phase? His version of a mid-life crisis? Fuck. I don’t want to think about it anymore.
“You should talk to him about it, Mom. He’s still waiting to hear back from you about your wedding RSVP,” I say between mouthfuls.
Mom opens her mouth to speak, and from the passion in her stare, I can tell words are being thrown my way. But I’m no longer paying attention. I’m focused elsewhere now, on a figure wrapped in a powder blue dress, moving with near-lightning speed towards the bathrooms, wound up like a coiled spring.
She seems completely unaware of her surroundings, mind set only on fleeing whatever has her spine straight as a steel rod and hands fisted. I tune out my step-dad's concerned tone as he says my name a few times, trying to grab my attention again, asking if I’m okay. It’s not until Sierra disappears behind my mother's back—completely out of my view—that I retrace her steps.
My brow collide, pulling tightly together. I know I’m glaring mildly at the two women residing at the table Sierra scurried from—who by the look of their collected relief—couldn't be happier to see Sierra bee-lining it to the washroom. However, I feel my eyes narrow into a more cold, intimidating glare when I notice the rest of the group.
Sitting across from the women are two businessmen types—the kind of men who spend more money on custom tailored suits and name brand watches than they do on what kind of luxury car they drive. The first one, let’s call him Bert, sits on the inside of the booth, watching the breasts of the blonde across from him rise and fall with each breath she takes. There’s something carnal in the way he eyes her. Something that makes my gut twist. He’s clearly a boss or somebody who holds some sort of power over her. I can tell by the way she’s watching him: cautious and nervous but trying to play it off with a coy, flirtatious smile. I’ve seen Jade wear that same look every time Jim Sullivan walks into his bar. It pisses me off here and now just the same as it does then.