Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(16)

While they ate, he peppered her with questions, learning that she was a landscape designer from a seaside town in Rhode Island; that she and Rosa had four brothers and were the only daughters; that, like him, her mother was dead; and that, unlike him, her father was not.

As she answered that last, she set the remains of her burger back on its plate. “This isn’t a conversation, you know. This is an interview.”

She was right, and he laughed, feeling his cheeks warm a little. Blushing was a new thing. He didn’t blush, and he didn’t like it. But he’d embarrassed himself on more than one occasion with this woman. “Well, I’m at a disadvantage. You read my memoir. You know a lot more about me than I do you. Just trying to catch up.”

“Not really. I skimmed through it again this morning. You don’t write much about yourself at all. It’s not the story of you. It’s the story of the loss of you. Your wife’s death and your grief—those are the main characters.”

Was it strange that his cock swelled at her words? Probably it was. But her clear insight, that moment of being perfectly understood, passed over him like a caress. He put his hand on her thigh—he did it without thinking, simply needing, suddenly, to touch her. “Yes. That’s right. It doesn’t have much to do with me at all.”

“And that’s why it’s so poignant. There’s this sense that you weren’t even there, somehow. Like you mattered so little in the cosmos of that time that you weren’t even visible in your own grief.” She turned toward his sons and her sister. “I feel like I know them and your wife better for having read your memoir than I know you.”

If they’d have been alone in that booth, he would have kissed her—would have grabbed her, pulled her close, laid her down on the seat and kissed the breath right out of her. As it was, he looked down at his plate and tried to rein in his careening emotions.

After a minute, he felt her hand on his, which still lay on her thigh. “Did I say something wrong?”

He looked at their hands. Hers was shapely and tan, with graceful, unadorned fingers ending in blunt, unvarnished nails. “No. There haven’t been many people who’ve been able to see that. It’s a powerful feeling to be understood.” He turned his head and met her eyes.

She smiled. “I felt something a little like it, I think, when our mother died. I got lost in the grief and loss and responsibility. It changed everything.”

He turned his hand under hers and linked their fingers. Her head jerked down to see, but she didn’t move away.

He wanted more than a physical connection with this woman. But when he curled his fingers over hers and squeezed, she twisted out of his hold and turned to Rosa.

Once she inserted herself into the conversation the youngsters were having—he kept thinking of his boys and Rosa as ‘the youngsters’; he had no idea how old Carmen was, but he was sure she, too, was considerably younger than he—the talk began to focus on the next day’s plans. Distracted by his still-rioting emotions and the new way of thinking that seemed to be following after them, Theo was a second behind the rest before he understood that Jordan was trying to invite himself along on Carmen and Rosa’s planned shopping trip tomorrow.

“Jordan, we have plans, son.” They didn’t have any fixed plans, in fact, but Theo was looking for a way to get his son under control. He got excited sometimes and came on far too strong. The thought of having a likeminded shopping buddy seemed to have overheated his circuits. Neither his brother nor his father were much good on shopping trips.

“No—but Dad, I can help.” He turned to Rosa. “I did research before I came over. I know the best vintage shops, the best places to get consignment designer goods, all of it. I even have a route planned out for browsing with the super-rich on the Champs-élysées.”

Rosa, evidently into the idea, sent an inquiring look toward her sister. Carmen shrugged. “Fine with me. You two can go without me.”

“No way, Carm. You have to come, too. You promised—a fancy outfit for a fancy dinner out tomorrow. You can’t go in your laborer-chic clothes.”

At the same time that Carmen flipped her sister the bird and muttered, “Fuck you, precious,” Jordan clapped.

“Fancy dinner? Like tuxedo fancy? Like I could wear my new patent leather tuxedo slippers?”

Theo was, frankly, appalled at the way his son’s untrammeled enthusiasm was running roughshod over other people’s standing plans. “Jordan! Enough!”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d raised his voice to either son. Many years. Certainly not since they were grown. And Jordan looked shocked, abashed, and hurt. Shit. Theo needed to get control of his head.

Into the sudden awkward silence that followed Theo’s…shout—really, it had been a shout; he’d even hit the table when he’d said it—into that silence, Eli spoke. His eyes on Rosa, he said, “You know, it would be nice to do a big night in Paris with a couple of beautiful women.” He smirked at his brother. “If you don’t mind being a fifth wheel, that is.”

Regaining his bravado, Jordan passed a fussy, artful hand over his styled hair. “Honey, I’m never the fifth wheel. I’m driving.”

Eli laughed and turned to Theo. “Dad?”

Theo felt contrite for having yelled—and for obviously being wrong about how welcome Jordan’s horning in really was. With a sheepish grin, he turned to Carmen. “Would you care for some company on your fancy night out?”