Addicted to Santino - Amarie Avant Page 0,32

out of your mouth? Gina fucking Morelli.”

At his declaration, a knot forms in my stomach, squeezing me from the inside out.

His hands push masses of my now puffing hair. “I’m intent on making you mine, Bella. Have I ever wavered from this belief? I’m not speaking of just the bedroom. I want your heart. So, no more nonsense. You made my ma’s infamous soup for me? Because I was sick.”

“Because you do so much for your family and you deserve it, Santino.”

“I deserve you. My ebony angel. Mine. Listen, Gina, I wasn’t always this guy. I was a selfish asshole.”

“A-push-women-under-the-bus selfish asshole?” I raise a hand, demonstrating that my pageant wave is coming up.

“No, Bella.” Santino’s lips curve into a smile. More goosebumps sprinkle down my spine as he kisses the center of my palm. “Your brother-in-law has that title.”

My tears create a mirage of Santino’s smiling face. “So, you weren’t bad?”

“I was worse. Can I tell you about it later? At the moment, my main priority is what’s troubling you?”

Instantly, I remember how Antonia made me feel. She reminded me of my sisters, though subtle with her hints. “Santi, what are your Thanksgiving plans?”

“I’m doing you for breakfast, lunch, might take a break for dinner, though.”

“Bad Santa . . . Bad, Bad . . . Santa . . . Hey, where’s the ‘Gina this’ or ‘Gina that’ to spite me?”

“I like Bad Santa.”

“Be serious. Thanksgiving. You, your mom, Toni,” God no, not her father, “have nothing else to do? My family’s doors are open.”

“Ma and Toni are visiting our family in Jersey.”

“And you? I never want you to look at me with disappointment again.”

“Gina, I half OD’d off DayQuil. If I hurt your feelings . . .”

I shake my head. “No, I’m a big girl. My feelings will be okay. I just don’t want to see that look again. I want to be available in every way, Santino. I get enough disappointment from my dad. Sheesh, this conversation is getting real weird fast.”

“I know what you mean.”

I laugh softly. “All I’m saying is I love the way you’ve looked at me this far in our relationship. There’s no question about it. I’d like to get us right the first time.”

GIVE THANKS

21

Gina

My heart clutches in my chest when I reflect on how Santino thought I wasn’t putting my all in our relationship. I can’t remember where, but I remember this one saying. “Don’t marry the man who makes you orgasm like crazy. Instead, marry the dependable guy.” Well, it probably is a less explicit proverb. But I’ve come to realize that Santino Morelli checked both boxes, as well as a few qualifiers not on my list. Such as the ease of how he flips me like pancakes.

Fluffy pancakes.

Nevertheless, I rarely half-ass an activity, and he’s become so much more to me.

Less than half a day after eating the soup I slaved over, I witness a “miracle.” Santino has recovered and is so horny that I can’t bolt fast enough. We consider leaving mid-Saturday for the cabin. Unfortunately, I catch the sniffles. I know his giving me head the night before wasn’t a good idea.

Needless to say, the weekend and for much of the week after, Santino and I are quarantined together. For the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, I’ve weaseled in my Christmas mantra.

This Christmas will be beautiful.

While dining at Santino’s mother’s house on a few nights, I notice what he means about her recalling certain emotions. She’s teeming with old stories while teaching me to make pasta from scratch. Though Antonia’s a tough cookie to crack, her scrutinizing gaze isn’t so narrowed.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I’ve noticed a list of birthday suggestions she’s scribbled on a piece of paper.

“Hey, is your birthday around the corner? This month? There’s a few days left!” I screech.

Antonia initiates her usual one-word answers, “No.”

“December? I’m a December baby.” I smile, eager to edge her into the conversation as she chops onions like a beast.

“All this time, that hasn’t come up between us,” Santino says from the couch in the living room. “I’ve kept telling myself I’ll get you to Italy by March at the latest.”

I arch a brow. “March?”

“Evil Aries, Bella.”

Not a believer in horoscopes, I purposefully ignore him. “So, when’s your birthday?”

“April.” She snorts, setting aside the onions to mince garlic. “What are you doing on your birthday? Spending all my uncle’s money and then speeding oodles of your own on yourself?”

Standing up from the couch, Santino snarls. “An-to-ni-ahhh .