To be honest, Dante Bellini’s interest had been a surprise. He was suave and urbane—not words she’d have pinned to herself, that was for sure. Extremely good-looking in that Mediterranean way. Extremely well off, too, which certainly didn’t hurt his appeal. He lived in Midnight Cove, a complex of gorgeous condos on the water. The ocean, not the river, which offered a much more working-class view. It might be a case of opposites attract, but clearly there was something there.
Yep. Time to shore up the defenses. Dante liked her. They’d slept together six times. She’d head home, put on pretty underwear and girl clothes, tell Dante how she felt, and he’d say yes. He probably wanted the same thing.
* * *
“YOU DON’T?”
“It’s not that, Posey. I just don’t have the time right now. The restaurant. You understand, I’m sure.” Dante smiled, his white teeth glinting like a pirate’s against his swarthy skin. “But I really do enjoy spending the time with you, even though it’s not enough time.” He handed her a glass of wine and reached out to touch her neck.
“Um, right.” The fire crackled in the fireplace, and across the cove, the lights of other houses gleamed discreetly. Posey shifted on the leather couch. She kept sliding down, and it was irritating. “It’s just that we can’t stay at this level forever. I mean, I’m not asking for a ring and a date, Dante. But don’t you want to…move things forward a little? Do stuff together? Meet my parents?”
“God, no,” he said, then seemed to realize what he’d said. “I mean, I’m sure they’re nice people. It’s just that they hate me.”
“Well, they don’t hate you per se,” Posey murmured. “It’s more your restaurant.”
“Right. Even so.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay. Look. We’ve been, um, together for what…a few weeks?” Eight weeks, Dante. Six times. “But I’d like to go out to dinner once in a while. Catch a movie. Be able to…be seen with you, Dante. I like you. You’re fun. This isn’t really enough for me.”
“And you’re fun, too,” he said, smiling.
“So…it’s not like I’m naming our babies, I promise,” Posey said.
“I know. But Inferno needs every spare moment. This, though…this is perfect.” He picked up her hand and kissed it.
“Huh,” Posey said, slumping back against the couch and sliding down yet again. Dante took this as an invitation to kiss her neck. He smelled awfully good… Whatever shampoo he used, she was sure she couldn’t afford it. She sighed…not in rapture, either. Dante’s hand moved under her shirt. She grabbed it. “Okay, wait a sec.”
He raised his head, giving her that sleepy, sexy look that had first gotten her attention as she lugged in the statue of the martyred virgin St. Agnes of Rome. “Shall we move to the bedroom?”
Men. “No, Dante. You just told me this is as good as it gets for the foreseeable future. It’s not good enough for me.”
“What are you saying?”
“Well…” Time to take a stand, Posey, or be a booty call forever. “Maybe we should put things on hold. For a while. See how we feel then.”
He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it. “Well, fine. If that’s what you want.”
“No, I just told you what I want. More than coming over once a week. Because that feels like a booty call, and I’d like to be more than that.”
“Fine.” His voice was sharp. “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. I thought you, as a successful business owner, would understand that.”
“I do. I just… I’m sorry. But you know, why don’t we kind of reassess things in a month or so? Maybe a little time apart will…clarify things.”
“Fine.”
“Great.” Posey folded her arms across her chest. To think she’d put on a lace bra for this. It itched.
Dante stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to say, Posey, I’m a little surprised. You don’t seem like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The settling-down type. I thought you were… Well, I thought you were different.”
“Apparently not,” she muttered.
“It’s just that you seem very…untraditional.”
“Because I don’t wear skirts and high heels? Does that mean I don’t want a normal relationship somehow?”
“Well, in some ways, yes. It sends a message.” He looked her up and down. Her jaw clamped shut. Lace bra. For this. And this was her girly outfit. Jeans (made for a woman and everything). Flowered shirt. Flowers! On the shirt! A peachy-colored, itchy lace bra and matching panties, come on! What kind of message was that? A traditional one, that was what!
“Okay, I’ll be going now,” she said, standing up.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Dante said, cocking his head and giving her a sorrowful look.
“It’s fine.” She sighed. “So…a break? We’ll talk again?” A small spark of hope flared in her chest. Maybe this was what they needed. Or what he needed—time to see how great she was.
“Sure.” He leaned in and kissed her, and she let him. “Want to stay for a while?” he murmured, moving to her neck.
“No. Gotta go. Thanks, Dante.”
All the way home, she alternated between mild fuming and healthy insecurity. A message, huh? Just because she wasn’t built like J-Lo, just because she lacked the feminine skills that so many of her gender expressed without effort—the flirting, the hair and makeup, the softness—it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to settle down. Of course she did. How could she look at her parents and not want what they had, that effortless, seamless togetherness? Or Jon and Henry, together since college? Of course she wanted that.
She pulled into her driveway and went inside her home, seeing it through fresh eyes. She lived in a restored—well, a half-restored—church rich in cobwebs, creaky floors and character. Someday—about a hundred thousand dollars from now—this place would be on the tour of homes. For now, though, the roof needed to be replaced. The belfry might be a little dangerous, given that the mechanism that held the 800-pound iron bell was not only broken, but rusting, and rusting fast. Furnishings-wise, the place was a little cluttered with the things she couldn’t bear to part with, things that hadn’t sold at Irreplaceable. The Victorian birdcage. The statue of the elephant. The bishop’s chair.
Shilo, sensing his mistress needed some love, gave a bay of joy at the sight of her, and Jellybean, the largest of her triumvirate of cats, trotted over as well, as he seemed to be half dog. “Who are my good boys?” she said as Shilo head-butted her in the stomach and Jellybean pricked her with his claws (lovingly, of course). “You hungry? Want some Stouffers? Huh? Want some delicious French bread pizza? You do? So do I, pal.”
But even as she cranked the Neil Diamond (“Sweet Caroline,” because, come on, what else would you play in a bad mood?), the thought came to her that maybe ending her arrangement with Dante, flimsy though it was, might not have been the smartest move. Not because it was meaningful and special (not yet, though she’d thought they had potential), but because she’d just lost even a small barrier between her heart and Liam Murphy. Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him in Guten Tag’s kitchen, not an hour had passed without Liam crossing her mind.