A Vow So Soulless, page 27
“Are you wearing a hard hat?” I tease.
A gruffness enters his voice.
“How about we talk about what you’re wearing instead?”
“I’m still in bed. If you were here last night then you know what that is.”
“Ah. Right. Those grandma jammies that you somehow manage to make look fucking sexy. Still don’t know how you do that, by the way.”
I hear another voice in the background, along with the beeping sound of a truck. Elio tells me that he has to go.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmurs. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Deirdre.”
He hangs up before I can say it back.
As promised, Valentina shows up later that afternoon. And she doesn’t just have dresses for me. She’s got a whole rolling case of stuff that, when opened, spills over with fabric samples and stationery and catalogues, all of it distinctly bridal in aesthetic.
“I came a little early,” she says, hauling stuff out of the case and dumping it on the island in the kitchen. “I figured we could do some wedding stuff before you got ready. Although… If you don’t want to, I can make all the final decisions myself.”
She pauses then, swatches of pearly fabric in her fists, and eyes me like she expects me to object the way I did on the way to the wedding dress fitting.
“It’s alright,” I tell her with a small smile. “I’ll help.”
She looks surprised for a moment, then grins.
“Resigned yourself to your fate then, eh?” she says cheerily.
Not long ago, that sentence would have made me recoil. But now I just give a disbelieving laugh. “Something like that.”
Now that I’ve agreed to the wedding, it doesn’t seem fair to make Valentina take on so much work to plan it on her own. So I throw myself in head-first right alongside her. I don’t know anything about event planning, but it that doesn’t matter much. Valentina’s knowledge makes up for my lack. And it seems like she mostly just wants my input on things, which I’ve grown to appreciate.
This isn’t a wedding I ever could have anticipated. But at least I’m being consulted on things like the flowers and the décor.
We’re elbow deep in wedding stuff when Valentina glances at her phone and swears.
“Shit. We have to get you ready!” She leaps off the stool beside the island, and I follow suit. She snatches the garment bags she brought with her and hustles up the stairs with me close behind.
This reminds me so much of that second night here, when Valentina came to help me get ready for the gala. But this time, I’m much more willing to do everything she asks. I try on both dresses quickly without dithering about the camera the way I once did.
I grimace to myself, remembering what she said. About how I’d get used to things here.
And it seems like I have.
We both agree on the second dress I try on. It’s a gown of opalescent silk that looks white at first glance, but gleams in the palest shades of lavender and shell-pink at certain angles and in certain light. Something about the design feels Grecian – the silk is draped in flowing swoops at the shoulders, and it’s cut not too low in the front but very low in the back. As I reach up to adjust the shoulder of the dress, Valentina smacks her forehead.
“I forgot you don’t have any razors. I didn’t bring one this time. Quick. Take that off. There’s a waxing kit in the bathroom.”
I’m not exactly keen on waxing right now, but it seems like the only available option at the moment. And it turns out that Valentina’s got a deft hand for the job. She waxes beneath my arms and along my legs with a ruthlessly competent efficiency that makes the stinging not as bad as it probably could have been in other circumstances.
“Want me to do your bush?” she suddenly asks.
I nearly choke on my own spit at the completely unselfconscious way she says it. Coughing, I stare at her with watering eyes.
“Um,” I gasp, “I hadn’t really thought about it…”
She shrugs.
“No biggie. I just thought, you know, special occasion and all that.” She waggles her perfect eyebrows at me and I want to melt into the floor.
I’m about to tell her no, but I’m suddenly seized by the idea of Elio undressing me later, unwrapping me like a present, and finding me smooth and bare down there.
Would he be surprised?
Would he like it?
I can’t get the thought out of my mind. Before I can lose my nerve, I nod and squeak out, “OK!”
Turns out waxing down there hurts a hell of a lot more than the other places. But even so, Valentina is still quick and competent. It’s almost hard to be embarrassed even spread-eagle for her because she’s so casual about the whole thing, like she’s used to it.
“How are you so good at this – fucking ouch!” I exclaim.
Valentina presses her fingers to the raw place, letting the hot throb cool to a quiet pulse of pain. “I always wanted to own my own business. Guess that runs in the family,” she says with a slight roll of her eyes. “For a long time, I thought I’d open a hair salon or a spa. Even though I’d be the one running it, I still wanted to know the ins and outs. Lucia and Giulia used to let me practise stuff like this on them all the time.”
She whips another strip of wax away, and I have to wait for the sting to subside before I can ask her, “You don’t want to run a salon anymore? What do you want to do now?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Things aren’t exactly going the way I imagined they would.”
She prepares to yank another strip of wax, and when she moves the light sparkles on the pink diamonds of her rose-gold ring.
It’s almost as if she senses my sudden pity, or that I’m going to say something mopey that she doesn’t want to hear, because she gives a swift tug and all I can manage is a yelp. We don’t talk much after that until the waxing is all done.
“I need a drink,” I groan, my whole body feeling like an exposed nerve. “Or an ice bath. Or both.”
“No time,” Valentina replies, handing me a bottle of some kind of soothing post-wax lotion. “I still need to do your hair and makeup!”
Since we’re running late there’s no time for any elaborate heat-styling of my hair. Valentina settles on leaving its natural wavy-curly texture as-is. She pins it up, leaving little curls falling around my ears, then frowns at her phone.
“Elio’s gonna be here soon and I can guarantee he’s gonna be pissed if you’re not ready,” she says, looking worriedly at my bare face.
“That’s alright,” I say quickly. Last time Valentina did my makeup the result was stunning but it didn’t feel like me. The foundation was so perfectly-applied that every freckle on my face had vanished.
Elio told me once that he liked my freckles.
We settle on some light concealer, mascara, and very dark red lipstick that adds drama to an otherwise softly ethereal look. I forgo a bra with the low back of the dress, and with a surge of erotic defiance I decide not to wear any panties, either. When I put the dress back on, the silk of the clinging skirt brushes the newly-bare skin between my legs. My clit responds instantly, my nipples pebbling. I take a few experimental steps, just to feel the delicious kiss of the silk against my exposed, sensitive places.
“Thanks for all this,” I tell her, reddening a little thinking about how much time she spent between my legs helping me get ready. “And for… for the wedding stuff.”
I can’t believe I’m thanking her, or anyone, for anything to do with that wedding. But here I am.
She grins, brushing long blonde hair away from her face.
“Elio runs one tight fucking ship, I’ll tell you that much,” she says, but it sounds affectionate. “Only he would demand that I plan a whole wedding in basically one month. And not just some elopement shit either. A big grand affair. ‘Deirdre deserves something nice,’” she says in a suddenly deep, growly voice, “‘so you had better make it nice.’ That’s what he told me.”
“He said that?”
“Sure did.”
“And what about you tonight? Are you doing anything for Valentine’s Day with Dario?”
“Ugh, gross,” she says. “Definitely not. Some flowers arrived for me this morning and I’m 99% sure his secretary sent them instead of him. Wasn’t even a handwritten card or anything.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say to that. Valentina deserves a hell of a lot better. I almost feel guilty now, thinking of the immensely personal and thoughtful gift that Elio gave me.
“Oh, God, please don’t look so sorry for me,” she groans, shooing me towards the door.
“You and Elio are a lot alike, you know,” I tell her as I let her usher me into the hallway and down the stairs.
Valentina laughs. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”
“It is,” I say instantly.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Valentina produces a few pairs of shoes from the case she brought. We settle on a pair of blood-red pumps to match the lipstick, as well as diamond-and-ruby studs and a matching pendant. After I’m fully ready to go, she starts putting all the wedding stuff away, but then seems to give up.
“I’m just gonna leave this stuff here,” she says. “Now that I know you want to help with the planning, I’ll have to come back again anyways.”
“Sounds good. I-”
A noise from across the main floor of the house cuts me off. It’s the sound of a door opening. I lean around the kitchen island to see Elio striding from his office.
Like I’m drawn by marionette strings, I move out from behind the kitchen island without conscious thought. There’s an irresistible pull towards him that I can’t ignore or even try to fight.
Elio falters slightly when he sees me. But maybe he feels that pull too, because he starts walking again, faster this time, heading straight for me with hunger in his eyes.
Valentina says a quiet goodbye to me and leaves.
And then it’s just Elio and me.
If I thought my whole body felt like a raw nerve after the waxing, it’s ten times worse now. The buzz of pain is still present along my skin, but now there’s this tight, hot bundling in my belly that only adds to the overwhelm. I feel giddy and nearly nauseous when I look at him, when I take in the black-clad bulk of his body, smell the heady spice of his cologne.
He hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just staring at me like he can’t tell if he wants to hug me or eat me.
“You look nice,” I blurt in the silence that throbs between us.
God, what a bland word. Nice. There’s nothing nice about Elio, not even how he looks right now. He’s dark, devastating, beautiful the way a blade is. But I’m not articulate enough, or maybe not brave enough, to say any of that aloud. So ‘nice’ it is, I guess, even though it doesn’t come close to describing the luxurious fit of his all-black suit, the clean shave of his hard jaw, the thick and swept-back hair, the arresting embers of his eyes. I barely even see his scars anymore.
“And you look like a fucking angel,” he says so intensely that he nearly sounds angry. The leather of his fingertips glides to my collarbone. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He turns to walk towards the door. I catch his unsplinted hand between both of mine. He halts and turns back towards me with a questioning look.
“I just… I just wanted to say thank you. For that gift you left for me.”
“You already thanked me on the phone.”
“I know,” I reply. “But that’s not the same. I just… I don’t think you know how much that meant to me.”
“I know, Songbird.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Do you have any photos of your mom?” I ask him.
There’s a flicker of emotion behind his eyes that he instantly shuts down.
“No.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. So I just nod and give his hand another squeeze before letting go. Then I put my hands on either side of his jaw and tug him down. I press a very soft kiss to his cheek. Despite how gentle I am, it’s like I’ve electrified him. I feel the muscles and tendons jump in his jaw and neck beneath my fingers.
“I don’t have a gift for you,” I say as I let him go. “I forgot what day it was today.”
Heat jumps from his gaze to my skin.
“I can think of other ways,” he drawls darkly, “that you can make it up to me.”
I shiver, feeling so exposed under his gaze.
“Well… I guess we should get going,” I say. “Do we have a reservation at a certain time?”
“Don’t need a reservation when you own the restaurant.”
“Oh! Well… Alright then. Oh, crap!”
“What?” Elio says, pulling me against his chest and scanning the room with urgent eyes.
“No, no, nothing serious,” I say, pulling away. “I just noticed the lipstick kiss mark I left on your face!” I lick my thumb then reach up to smudge it away, but Elio catches my wrist in an iron grip.
“Don’t.”
“You want to go out to a nice dinner with my lipstick on your cheek?” I say with a disbelieving laugh.
Elio doesn’t laugh. He’s utterly serious when he simply says, “Yes,” and then pulls me out the door into the night.
Chapter 32
Elio
“This is your restaurant?!” Deirdre cries as we enter the luxurious dining room of Le Moineau. “Doesn’t it have a Michelin star?”
“Two, actually,” I tell her as the maître d’ gives us a deferential greeting and leads us through the opulent space. I keep Deirdre close, my hand on her lower back as we walk. Her dark red shoes click along the highly polished wood of the floors as we approach my usual table.
It’s secluded from the rest of the restaurant, the table tucked into an intimate corner that’s further separated from the other people dining by a wrought iron trellis with plants curling along its shape. Not that there are any other patrons here. I’ve closed out the entire place for us tonight.
The maître d’ pulls out Deirdre’s chair for her, but one look from me has him moving swiftly away. I replace him behind her, pushing her chair in for her as she sits. She turns around to thank the maître d’, then blushes fiercely when she sees it’s me.
“Thanks,” she whispers. “Where is everyone?” She cranes her neck to see past the wrought iron trellis with its dark, curling leaves.
“Eating in somebody else’s restaurant tonight,” I say with a shrug as I sit across from her. I don’t really give a fuck where the rest of Toronto’s idiotic lovebirds have ended up tonight. I only care about the Songbird sitting on the other side of the table.
The lighting in here is dim and soft. It makes Deirdre’s skin glow and her eyes look huge and dark. She looks like a fucking painting sitting there with those eyes and that hair and that dress. A work of fucking art that should be hung up on a wall somewhere and studied.
Only by me, of course.
She casts her eyes down at the menu then looks startled.
“Oh, wow. They don’t even put prices on the menu here,” she remarks, picking up the menu like she’s afraid she’ll break it or get it dirty.
“The kind of people who eat here aren’t concerned by prices or budgets,” I tell her. “You’re one of those people now.”
She puts down the menu and sighs.
“It’s hard to get used to. Not long ago I was in such a massive amount of debt. Now I’m someone who doesn’t have to worry about prices?”
“That’s what happens when you marry the right man.”
I fully expect her to scowl at that remark, but instead she laughs. Just a little one.
Still tears my heart out all the same.
“Noted,” she says, her tone teasing. “You’re going to have to advise me on what to order, you know. I’ve never been somewhere like this.”
“The menu’s not too crazy,” I say. “This isn’t the kind of place where they’re going to feed you sea urchin foam on top of a single pine nut or some shit like that. If you don’t know what you want we’ll just order it all.”
She’s got her glass of water at her lips, and she coughs loudly as some of the drink goes down the wrong tube.
“All of it? The whole menu?”
“Yup.”
Before she can argue with me, I’ve already signalled the maître d’ and told him to prepare the entire menu for our table. I tell him to bring wine, too, and to keep Deirdre’s glass filled. My kidney’s healing up, but I decide to forgo the booze tonight, figuring I’d better not push my luck if I want to make it down that aisle in two weeks with no issues. Plus, I drove us here, and I’m not about to get plastered and get behind the wheel with such precious fucking cargo.
My ribs are doing better lately, too, but they still give the occasional twinge. Same with my fractured hand.
Soon enough, the food starts coming, plate after plate of appetizers and entrees that make Deirdre’s eyes just about bug out of her head. There are individually seared scallops with garlic mascarpone drizzle, slices of raw steak served with a rosemary balsamic glaze, fall-off-the-bone braised lamb shank, freshly hand-shaped pasta with pear and gorgonzola cream sauce, bowls of lobster bisque, and pristine little salads with jewel-coloured vegetables and fruits.
Every time Deirdre tries something new, she says, “Oh my God, that’s my favourite thing.” Then she tries something else and says, “No, wait, that’s my favourite thing!”
It’s fucking adorable. I barely eat, I’m so focused on watching her take her cute little bites.
She drinks her wine too, barely noticing the maître d’ who comes to replenish it whenever it gets low. Throughout the meal her cheeks get more and more pink, her voice and gestures more animated than usual. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the present I got her or what, but she seems to be opening up to me more. Chatting away like a bird chirping on a branch. She tells me all about the wedding stuff she’s worked on with Valentina, and what’s going on at school.
