Adopted – Episode 33

ADOPTED – Episode 33

© Happy William

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Anne’s POV

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His carbonara was the most delicious I’ve ever tasted, and when I said it to him he wore a slight smirk and replied, “So now you agree that we’re the best cooks?”

I laughed. “Yes. Not totally though.”………..

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Halfway through dinner with a considerable amount of wine, Emilio dropped his fork, took a sip of his pellegrino and looked me in the eye.

” Anne, I wanna talk to you. ”

Squirming in my seat, I nodded. “Yes?”

“What happened last night… or what almost happened,” he cleared his throat, “I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.”

He was watching my reaction, I could see.

With my head and voice lowered, I replied, “It’s alright Emilio.”

“Good. Now tell me. What’s wrong? Was it a man?”

The look in his eyes and the harsh dryness of his tone told me that he was going to ki*ll who ever the man was.

And in this case, it was my foster parents.

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Anne

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Emilio took out a tray of bacon from the fridge, and while it cooked on the gaslight, water boiled in the electric kettle.

I perched on a kitchen stool at the table watching his every move; the way his muscles and biceps flexed and strained under his cotton polo shirt, the way his hands moved smoothly and efficiently over each kitchen utensil as if he’d been doing this for , like, forever.

Reaching over for a dishrag from the top of a glass case, I spotted the metallic grey of objects.

Guns.

Till now it was still difficult, or shocking to Accept the fact that that Emilio dabbled in such…. bad things.

Getting off my stool, I strode casually to the case.

“So, chef, are guns like an essential ingredient for a dish?” I asked, running my hand across the case.

He chuckled softly, took my hand and led me away from there.

“Yeah..Not one you should bother to find out though.”

“But I think they are nice. Nice collection,” I countered, raising an eyebrow at him.

I wanted him to understand that even though I was scared of such, he didn’t need to keep hiding them from me. I wanted him to know that I accepted whatever he did.

As far as it was him.

“I know,” he said as he pulled a strand of spaghetti from the water he boiled and tossed it on the wall where it stuck. “That’s the test, you know. It’s all dente when it sticks to the wall.”

“Wow, really? So you keep tossing spaghettis to the wall each time your cooking?”

“No. I’m an expert. That was for your benefit, amateur.” He gave me a cocky grin and increased the heat on the bacon fat.

When it had melted, he put it over the spaghetti.

Then he cracked two eggs, his hands moving swiftly with precision, and spread it over the spaghetti. He poured the bacon grease over it, and slipped it into the oven for a minute.

When the oven timer went ‘plink’, he brought the big bowl over to the kitchen table. I’d already assisted in setting the table with two glasses, pellegrino in a bottle and two white bowls. He held a wooden fork in one hand, a wooden spoon the other and began to toss the still raw egg and bacon and fat into the pasta until it was well mixed. Grabbing up a wedge of parmesan, he grated focused, eyebrows puckered in concentration till cheese covered spaghetti like a fresh dusting of snow.

He turned the pepper mill a dozen times over the dish.

Then, with the wooden fork and spoon in hands again, he tossed the pasta one last time b4 lifting a perfect serving and placing it in the center of the plain white bowls.

“Enjoy,” he said with a grin, flicking off beads of sweat off his forehead with his thumb.

With a nod, I took a forkful into my mouth and chewed slowly, then I broke into a grin of my own.

“Mmmm…this is so nice.”

“The best you’ve ever tasted?” he asked, slipping into the seat beside mine.

“That’s too soon to say,” I replied, lifting another forkful into my mouth.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“I grew up in a houseful of girls. Emilia, Sophia, Cosima, Prudence, Portia….”

He trailed off that last bit, deep in thought for a split second.

“Besides,” he flashed me a peacock smile, “Italians are great cooks.”

“Ugh. Here we go again,” I rolled my eyes.

****

We’d finished dinner when the sun had descended behind the mountains and the sky had transformed to a dull purple hue.

Emilio had not eaten much. Maybe he wasn’t hungry. But then I caught him stealing glances at me twice or so when he thought I wasn’t looking. He always had this deep in thought look when he did so.

Now, after we’d cleared the table of the plates, we sat back, discussing random things that had nothing to do with exactly what was on our minds.

“I think we messed up,” I said.

Emilio’s brows raised in question.

“I mean… your hangover remedy. We should have gotten drunk before we ate.”

He laughed softly. “We’re you actually planning on doing so?”

I nodded and took a sip of my wine, the action reminiscent of the first time we kissed. I blushed, and bowed my head.

“Yes. Sometimes getting drunk is the best way to forget.”

Pausing, I wondered if I should’ve said that.

“Anne. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night with what happened… almost happened between us last night.”

I shook my head with a faint smile. “It’s not you…. I kinda freaked out. But it’s alright.”

“Good.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Now tell me. Was it a man?”

My head shot up quickly as I registered the dry harshness of his tone to meet a deadly glint in his eyes that made it clear that he was going to ki*ll who ever it was that made me scared of intimacy.

My foster parents.

And to make matters worse, he already had a ‘hard spot’ for them, after I’d told him of my past.

But I never told him about the scars. The scars that were big and ugly and red, staring at me with a mocking smirk each time I took of my clothes to shower.

With a sigh, I twisted my fingers over one another as I struggled to arrange my explanation. He deserved to know.

“I’m —I’m imperfect,” I said on exhaled breath.

I watched his reaction.

His eyes widened, then narrowed as he tried to make sense of what I’d just blurted out.

“I’m not sure I understand you, amora.”

I cleared my throat. “I uh, have these really ugly scars. Courtesy of my foster parents.”

“They hit you? I swear I’m going to —”

“Don’t, please? It’s in the past,” I quickly said to restrain him from standing up.

So now I’ve spilled.

“So…..” I drawled out, still looking down.

Emilio took my hand, lifting me up as he stood.

He pulled me closer to himself.

“Did you really think that anything would make me desire you any less?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he caressed my cheeks, and face, burying his nose in the crook of my neck.

“You’re just saying,” I whispered back, unable to speak out because of the things his touch did to me and how he made me feel.

“I can prove it,” he insisted softly, pulling apart to look into my eyes. The sheer sincerity almost had me screaming yes and running into his arms to decorate his already perfect face with kisses.

But I shook my head.

I reached for the neckline of my cloth and pulled it apart slightly, to reveal the starting of a deep reddish pink gash that ran from that point, across my breasts and down to my navel.

If Emilio was shocked, he didn’t show it. He kept his arm folded across his chest, still looking at me with that dark eyes that seemed to have darkened more, if that was possible.

“That doesn’t change anything,” he said, and stepped forward to cover the distance between us, leaning down to claim my lips in his in a kiss that was soft and sweet but demanding, telling me I could trust him. Telling me so many things in one.

Still kissing, he murmured against my lips, “I want you so badly I can’t think or see straight.”

My body shuddered pleasurably from the implications of those words, that I was desirable. That this superbly handsome man could want someone as plain as me.

He ironed a palm down my back.

“Let me turn off the lights if it’ll make you comfortable.” His voice was rasped, kissing down my neck and trailing wet kisses, “Let me make love to you.”

To be continued

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