Sweet Hope (Sweet Home #4)(26)

“You’re not one for small talk, are you?”

Aliyana’s eyes looked tired. Fuck, I knew mine did too, but hers didn’t lose their playful glint as she stared at me, awaiting my answer.

“Not really.”

She laughed again.

A server came to us then, calling back to a server in the kitchen to set up the patio. He’d spoken in perfect Italian. The waiter arrived at our table, his eyes flaring as they fell on Aliyana.

The guy flushed bright red and fumbled his notepad and pen in his hand. Something tightened in my stomach as Aliyana smiled up at him and the f*cker flashed her a toothy smile.

Feeling f*cked off that this * was hovering, I sat back in my chair and glared. He soon met my eyes, and when he did, his eyes immediately dropped to the notepad and he nervously asked us what we wanted.

“Caffè doppio e una brioche alla crema,” I ordered.

The server looked up and, although his expression was still guarded, he asked, “Tu parli Italiano?”

“Si,” I replied.

“Da dove vieni?” he asked, wanting to know where I was from.

“No, sono Americano. I miei genitori loro sono Italiani,” I said, telling him my mamma and papa were Italian, not me.

Fuck, I’d barely spoken Italian in years. Couldn’t bring myself to. I only ever spoke Italian to Mamma and my brothers. But since getting out of prison, it hadn’t felt right. Mamma was gone. I couldn’t bring myself to speak her mother tongue for more than a few sentences without it gutting me inside.

The server must have seen my body stiffen and my eyes drop to the table as he moved on to talk to Aliyana. I didn’t even hear what she ordered, too busy trying to breathe through the pain ripping me apart.

The feel of Aliyana’s warm hand placed over mine had my eyes darting up to clash with hers.

“Are you okay? You went real quiet on me just now. I was calling your name, but you were lost in your thoughts.”

“I’m good.”

We sat in silence while the server brought our coffees. Once he’d left us alone, Aliyana took a packet of sugar, poured it into her coffee, then fiddled with the packet.

“So.” She broke the silence. “You speak fluent Italian?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been told Elpidio is an old Italian name.” She lifted her latte to her lips, but her eyes never left mine, imploring me to answer her question.

“My folks were Italian, so I speak it. Bilingual,” I replied evasively, throwing my double espresso down my throat and signaling to the server to bring me another.

“Yo también,” Ally said, and I swear my dick hardened in response to her purring that f*cking Spanish my way.

Her face lit up, and she added, “Hablo espa?ol, no italiano, aunque puedo entender algo de lo que dijiste.”

Fuck porn. A chick as hot as Aliyana Lucia sitting in front of me, hair ruffled in a messy knot and shirt gaping, talking to me in Spanish was the hottest thing I’d ever f*cking seen.

I figured out from certain words in that sentence that she spoke Spanish and not Italian, though she could understand a lot of what I’d said. I couldn’t help but flick my chin in appreciation. I could kind of get what she was saying to me too. At least a little.

She laughed at me, and it hit me that she’d pulled me away from drowning in dark thoughts about my mamma. She’d pulled me through… again.

The server stood beside our table with a tray full of pastries and coffee. “You can put that down, ragazzo,” I said, and the server dropped the tray in front of us.

“Gracias,” Aliyana said in a friendly tone as he handed her a croissant smothered in Nutella.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she picked lumps of the flaky croissant and put them in her mouth, licking the chocolate spread off her fingers.

She had no f*cking clue how beautiful she was… and the effect she had on men.

“You got a man?” I suddenly blurted.

Aliyana froze, her tongue just about to lick a blob of Nutella from her thumb. A blush coating her cheeks, she lowered her hand and grabbed for a napkin.

Clearing her throat, she shook her head and whispered, “No.”

As she whispered the word, I felt myself relax. I hadn’t even realized I’d been bracing myself for her to tell me she had some rich, good-looking f*ck as a boyfriend… someone who treated her like a queen.

“Why?” I asked abruptly, and Aliyana jerked back in her chair. I shifted on mine too, hearing a second too late how aggressive that sounded. Aliyana’s eyes had dropped to the table.

I was such a f*ck-up.

Leaning forward, elbows on the table, I added, “Just thought a woman like you would have a line of men a mile long following you ‘round.” I ran my hand down my beard, f*cking embarrassed. I was shoving my foot further into my mouth at every turn.

And this was why I preferred to be left the hell alone.

A smile tugged on Aliyana’s mouth and she shrugged. “Just never met a man that I really connected with, you know? Never felt that bolt of lightning that leaves me breathless, I suppose.”

“No boyfriends?” I asked, now curious.

Her nose crinkled up, those dimples of hers popping out all over the place. “Not really. I’ve kinda thrown myself into my work these last few years. Never met a man who’s my type.” The way she blushed bright red and fiddled with the empty sugar packet again had me itching to ask what was her type.