Sweet Hope (Sweet Home #4) (12 page)

The longer we drove, the more I knew I shouldn’t be here with this woman. But I was, and honestly, I wasn’t gonna be going anywhere. I was going to breakfast with Aliyana for no other reason than I
couldn’t
go anywhere else. She’d asked, and I’d agreed. There was no other choice.

“It’s just over there,” Aliyana said, pointing to a small café tucked away on the waterfront. I laughed to myself. It was just three blocks from my studio.

In minutes, I’d parked the El Camino and we got out, the sunrise starting to break. No one was around except the market workers setting up for the day and early buyers waiting for the fresh fish to come in from the boats.

Aliyana and I entered the café overlooking the Sound, where we were told to pick wherever we wanted to sit. The guys who ran the place were still setting up, so I walked ahead of Aliyana to the farthest corner and sat down. The place was full of Italian flags, the servers Latino in their features and clearly Italian too.

I wondered if she’d picked this place because she’d worked out my heritage or whether it was because she just liked the coffee.

As I dropped to the seat, Aliyana sat down opposite me and took another glance around the empty café. We were alone. Good.

“This okay for you? This
empty
café?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“Yeah,” I replied, and she smiled wider at my curt response.

And there she went again, amused at my attitude. Most people would have given up on trying to talk to me by now, but it was like she didn’t get that I liked to be left alone. That I didn’t want people round me… I wanted to just fucking
be
.

“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 fucker flashed her a toothy smile.

Feeling fucked off that this asshole 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 fucking Spanish my way.

Her face lit up, and she added, “
Hablo español, 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 fuck-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, fucking 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.

After seconds of wondering, I finally just fucking asked. “And what’s that?”

Aliyana took a deep breath, her full tits pushing against her shirt, and met my eyes. “A man who’s protective, strong, dark… artistic, passionate… cultured…” She trailed off, rubbing her pink lips together, and I froze.

Her brown eyes pierced mine like she could see through to my fucking dark soul. I shifted under her scrutiny and felt my heart begin to race.

Forcing myself to look away, I picked up my brioche and ate it in silence. That fog of tension was back around us again, but I pushed it out of my mind. I just needed to get through this breakfast.

“Can I ask a question?” Aliyana said, and I sat back in my chair, my brioche now demolished. I flicked my chin in response, giving her the okay. “Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?”

And there it was. The one question everyone wanted to know. Why was
Elpidio
a recluse?

I shrugged. “Not into the whole fame thing.”

“Then why the exhibition? And why now?” She pushed.

Glancing out over the Puget Sound, I raked my hair back with my fingers. What was I meant to say?
I was locked up for distributing ‘class A’ drugs on the University of Alabama’s property, and in the process, nearly ruined my brother’s shot at the NFL. Oh, that’s right, you don’t know. My brother is Austin Carillo, number eighty-three for the Seahawks and regarded one of the best wide receivers in the country. But that’s now. A few years back, I was running a street crew dealing drugs. Oh, and I sold some fucked-up snow to a Tide player and he OD’d. So I’ve been serving ten years inside but got out a couple weeks ago after only five years because I ratted out a big-time cocaine supplier.

I couldn’t tell her none of that shit, so I answered, “Vin wanted it, and I told him as long as I didn’t have to deal with people, he could do what the fuck he wanted.”

Aliyana’s head tilted to the side as she regarded me. “And how and where did you meet Vin? I can’t imagine you ran in the same circles.”

If only she knew.

She edged forward, waiting for my answer.

“Around.”

“Around?” she questioned.

“Around,” I said a bit firmer to let her know I wasn’t saying shit.

Slumping back in her chair, she began eating again, only pausing to quietly say, “You’ve gotten me more than intrigued, Elpi.”

My forehead pulled down to a frown.

She must have seen my expression and added, “Your artwork floors me, so tragically beautiful.” My gut clenched as she spoke those words.
Tragically beautiful…

She dropped her croissant, letting out a single laugh. “I remember the first time I saw a picture of one of your sculptures. It was a piece in a magazine on Vin Galanti, and he did nothing but talk about his protégé, the reclusive and mysterious Elpidio. He’d just loaned one of your pieces to the Met as part of a marble statue contemporary exhibit, an exhibit of sculptors who still adhered to the old-fashioned hammer and chisel techniques.” Aliyana’s eyes lost their focus as she pushed her fingers through a small pile of sugar granules that had fallen from the packet she’d used earlier.

“Vin showed your first piece, the only work I’d seen in pictures from you.” A tiny smile pulled on her lips. “And the piece that is still my favorite today.”

I knew which one she meant. The only piece I could barely look at now without breaking.

“The angel…” she said, and I could hear the love for it in her voice. I expected to feel the usual slam of grief I never failed to experience whenever I thought of that piece and what it represented.

But Aliyana sitting here now, telling me she loved the piece, that it was her favorite out of all my sculptures, made me feel… proud… humbled… fucking floored. Floored that out of everything I’d created, Aliyana loved my mamma’s dedication most.

“I was in Austin, Texas, at The Blanton Museum of Art, but when I learned that your piece would be at the Met, I jumped on a plane and flew out for a whistle-stop stay of forty-eight hours just to see it up close.” She laughed. “The same thing I did to get this job actually.”

That blush was back on her cheeks, only this time I enjoyed every dip of her eyes, the flush of her cheeks, the quiet sighs she exhaled. I was just enjoying Aliyana, period.

“It sounds stupid, Elpi, but seeing your angel changed me. I don’t know what it was, but… but… ah, it doesn’t matter,” she said in embarrassment.

“Tell me,” I ordered gruffly. I really needed her to finish that fucking sentence. I needed to understand what she saw in my sculptures that had her so moved.

Aliyana took a long, drawn-out swallow but met my gaze with her brown eyes and said, “I felt
you
. I felt you in its every curve. I felt like I was looking straight into your soul. I felt the love you poured into that sculpture… It made me reassess everything in my life… It made me want
more
… it’s difficult for me to explain.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, my hands moving upward to rub over my eyes. “Aliyana…” I growled out, but not from anger, but from the fact that she was telling me things I didn’t deserve… that she didn’t want to get wrapped up in.

“Did I say too much?”

I drew my hands down my face. “Aliyana… if you saw the real me… if you saw straight into my soul, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me now.”

Aliyana’s eyes widened. “What do you mean by that?” Her voice was now shaking. I’d scared her. Good. She
should
be scared of me. I wasn’t the right kinda guy for her. I’d only just met her, but I knew she should be setting her standards a fucking mile higher than me.