Postcards From Rome. Maisey Yates

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      When he went downstairs and found her sitting in the dining area, on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her face tilted up toward the sun, a bowl of cereal clutched tightly in her hands, he knew that he had made the right decision in bringing in an entire team.

      “What are you doing?”

      She squeaked, startling and sloshing a bit of milk over the edge of her bowl, onto the tile floor. “I was enjoying the morning,” she said.

      “There is a table for you to sit at.” He gestured to the long, banquet-style piece of furniture, which had been carved from solid wood and was older than either of them, and was certainly more than good enough for this little hippie to sit and eat her cereal at.

      “I know. But I wanted to sit by the window. And I could have moved a chair, but they’re very heavy. And I didn’t want to scuff the tile. And anyway, the floor is fine. It’s warm from the sun.”

      “We are going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight,” he said, because it was as good a time as any to broach that subject. “And I trust you will not sit yourself on the floor then.” The image of her crouched in a corner gnawing on a lamb shank was nearly comical. That would upset his mother. Though, seeing as she had been prewarned that Esther was an American, she might not find the behavior all that strange.

      He regarded her for a moment. Her hair was caught up in that same messy bun she’d had it in yesterday, and she had traded her black tank top for a brown one, and yesterday’s long, flowing skirt for one in a brighter color.

      She frowned, her dark brows locking together. “Of course not.” He had thought her face plain yesterday, and now, for some reason, he thought of it as freshly scrubbed. Clean. There was something... Not wholesome, for this exotic creature could never be called something so mundane, but something natural. Organic. As if she had materialized in a garden somewhere rather than being born.

      Which was a much more fanciful thought than he had ever had about a woman before. Typically, his thoughts were limited to whether or not he thought they would look good naked, whether or not they would like to get naked with him, and then, after they had, how he might get rid of them.

      “Good. My parents are not flexible people. Neither are they overly friendly. They are extremely old, Italian money. They are very proud of their lineage, and of our name. I told them that we are getting married. And that you’re American. They are amused by neither. Or rather, my mother is amused by neither, and my father will follow suit.”

      Her dark eyes went round, the expression on her face worried. It was comical to him that she might be concerned over what his parents thought. Someone like her didn’t seem as though she would concern herself with what other people thought.

      “That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant evening,” she said, after a long pause.

      “Oh, evenings with my parents are never what I would call pleasant. However, they are not fatal.”

      “I have an aversion to being judged,” she said, her tone stiff.

      “Oh, I quite enjoy it. I find it very liberating to lower people’s expectations.”

      “You do not,” she said, “nobody does. Everybody cares about pleasing their parents.” She frowned. “Or, if not their parents, at least somebody.”

      “You said yourself, you left your parents. And that they weren’t happy with you. Obviously, you don’t worry overly much about pleasing your parents.”

      “But I did. For a long time. And the only reason I don’t now is out of necessity. I mean, I would’ve never had any freedom if I hadn’t let go of it.”

      There was a strange feeling in his chest, her words catching hold of something that seemed to tug on him, down deep.

      About freedom. About letting go.

      “Well, on that same subject, there is some work to be done if we are going to present you at dinner tonight.”

      “What sort of work?” She looked genuinely mystified at that statement, as though she had no idea what he might be referring to.

      As he stood before her in his perfectly pressed custom suit, and she sat cross-legged on the floor looking like she would be more at home at a Renaissance fair than in his home, it occurred to him that she really was a strange creature. The differences between the two of them should be obvious, and yet, she did not seem to pick up on them on her own. Or rather, she didn’t seem to care.

      “You, Esther.”

      “What’s wrong with me?”

      “What did you plan on wearing to dinner tonight?”

      She looked down. “This, I suppose.”

      “You do not see perhaps a small difference in the way that you are dressed, compared with the way that I am dressed?”

      “Did you want me to wear a tux?”

      “This is not a tux. It’s a suit. There is a difference.”

      “Interesting. And good to know.”

      He had a feeling she did not find it interesting at all. “I have taken the liberty of having some clothing ordered for you.” He lifted his hand and looked at his watch. “It should be here any moment.”

      Just then, his housekeeper came walking into the room, a concerned expression on her face. “Mr. Valenti, Tierra is here.”

      His stylist went by only one name. “Excellent.”

      “Should I have her meet you upstairs with all of her items?”

      “Yes. But in Esther’s room, if you don’t mind.”

      Esther’s eyes widened. “What exactly are you providing me with?”

      “Something that doesn’t look like it came out of the bottom of a bargain bin at some sort of rummage sale for mismatched fabrics.”

      She frowned. “Is that your way of saying there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

      “No. My way of saying that is to say what you’re wearing isn’t suitable. Actually, it’s perfectly suitable if you intend to continue to wait tables at a dusty bar crawling with tourists. However, it is not acceptable if you wish to be presented to the world as my fiancée, and neither is it acceptable for you to wear on the night you are to meet my parents.”

      At that, his housekeeper’s face contorted. She began to speak at him in angry, rapid Italian that he was only grateful Esther likely wouldn’t be able to decode. “She is pregnant with my child,” he said. “There is nothing else to be done.”

      She shook her head. “You have become a bad man,” she huffed, walking out of the room. That last part she had said in English.

      “Why is she mad at you?”

      “Well, likely because she thinks I impregnated some poor American tourist while I was still married. You can see how she would find that upsetting.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ