Hate to Date You (Dating #4) - Monica Murphy Page 0,54
know that we’ve had sex.”
She says it so casually, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s never going to happen again.
Lately, it’s all I can think about. Naked Stella. Flushed Stella. Stella on her knees on the floor right in front of me. Stella on all fours on the bed, gazing over her shoulder and aiming that seductive smile right at me. I imagine she’s got on that ruby-red lipstick I like so much.
In fact, I’m staring at her mouth right now, and I imagine it wrapped tight around my di—
“Those are really the only things you can’t mention, and you already know we don’t talk about them,” she says, invading my dirty thoughts. “So I think we’re good.”
Before I can say anything else, she’s out of the car and bounding up the wide stone steps toward the front door. I climb out of the car and do my best to follow after her, realizing once I’m walking up those steps that they’re made of marble. So are the stone pillars that line the front of the house—all eight of them.
Damn, that must’ve cost a fortune.
Stella doesn’t bother knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell—why should she? This is her house—she just barges right inside, announcing our arrival as she enters the foyer with a loud hello. Her voice echoes, and I see why when I step inside. The entry to this house is cavernous—the ceiling is two stories high and I glance up to see a gigantic sparkling chandelier hanging over our heads.
“My mother loves beautiful, glittery things,” Stella stage-whispers when she catches me ogling. “And my father loves anything that’s made out of Italian marble. Which means there are statutes. Lots and lots of statues. Be prepared to see a lot of little naked ding-a-lings.”
I can’t even comprehend what she’s saying to me. I’m too entranced with every detail I come across as I walk deeper into her family’s home. The furniture is ornate and elaborate. Heavy, dark wood, overstuffed chairs and couches covered in deep red, sumptuous fabric. There are beautiful paintings on the walls, most of them landscapes that appear to look straight out of the Italian countryside or coast. When we enter the formal living room, there’s a giant portrait hanging over the massive stone fireplace of what I assume is her entire family, standing on the very front steps we walked up only a moment ago.
“That photo is from my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary a couple of years ago. Pretty much everyone from my dad’s side and my mother’s side of the family came for the event,” Stella explains when she catches me staring. “My cousins from New York, from Italy. It was a big deal.”
I spot her in the bottom right corner, clad in a crimson dress with a little smile curving her perfect lips. She likes red.
I like Stella in red too.
“Come on,” she says, taking my hand when I linger in front of the portrait for too long. She leads me down a wide corridor, the walls covered with a variety of family photos over the years, from very old, black-and-white photos with solemn-faced people posing in dark clothes, to more recent photos of various family members. I spot Stella’s wide smile everywhere, and am desperate to linger over those too, hoping especially to examine the photos of her when she was a little girl, but she won’t let me.
The corridor opens to a gigantic, gleaming kitchen that’s bright white with stainless steel appliances. The countertops are marble with the thinnest stripes of gray, and there’s a giant pot on the stove, tendrils of steam dissipating into the air. The smells hit me all at once. Spices. Oregano. Onion. Garlic. Tomato sauce simmering.
My stomach growls.
“Stella, my lovely! There you are.” A little woman who looks just like Stella turns away from the oven and rushes toward us. Stella releases my hand immediately, right before she’s pulled into a crushing hug. “Who are you?” the woman asks as she studies me.
“Mama, I told you I was bringing Carter,” Stella chastises as she pulls out of her mother’s embrace. “This is Caroline’s brother.”
“Oh, Caroline. You should’ve invited her too, and that nice young man she’s going to marry.” She wraps me up in a hug, holding me tight for the briefest moment before she lets go of me. “Welcome, Carter. I hope you brought your appetite with you today.”
Mrs. Ricci pulls out of the hug, her assessing gaze sweeping over me. She’s