now, standing there in his steel suit, his blue-green eyes fixated on me in a way they never have been before, I know it’s not. He’s looking at me like I’m an angel. I’m his angel and he’s my devil.
Butterflies aren’t merely dancing in my belly. They’re waging all-out war.
Carlo reaches over and brushes a curl of hair from my forehead. Despite Alda’s heroic efforts, my hair has always been wild.
The bishop raises his hands and the music cuts short. The whispers of the crowd fall silent. All eyes are on us but I hardly feel them. Really, it’s like we’re in the garden pond again, the stars looking down, just me and him.
The ceremony begins. I don’t listen, really. It’s all I can manage to look into Carlo’s eyes and smile. Judging by the intensity of his gaze, he feels the same way I do: that everything that matters is already ours.
“Hazel Conway and Carlo De Maggio,” the bishop says when I tune back in, “have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?
Carlo and I laugh at the exact same time when we remember how our relationship started. Maybe it’s kind of messed up to laugh about ‘that one time he kidnapped me,’ but that’s what we are, let’s face it: just a little messed up. The bishop wriggles his bushy gray eyebrows in confusion.
“I have,” we say together.
The rest of the wedding goes off without a hitch or any spontaneous giggling. By the time the music is playing us out and the wedding ring is on my finger, I’m certain I’m the happiest woman in the world. I feel Carlo’s muscled arm through his suit jacket as we head for the car.
“I just have to say goodbye to Angelo,” I say.
He’s in the nanny’s arms, cooing and smiling. Angelo has my nose but Carlo’s blue-green eyes, a dazzling mixture that’s going to make him one hell of a heartbreaker when he grows up. I give him a kiss on the forehead and tell him I’ll be home soon. I tell him I love him more than anything.
“Come on,” Carlo says, but he’s holding Angelo’s hand. “Let’s go before the little bastard makes it impossible.”
“Carlo!” I cry, but I’m laughing. “Do not call him that!”
Carlo grins, kissing Angelo on the cheek. “I’m sorry, son. Forgive me. Be brave and we’ll be home soon.”
We head to the car, and then to the airport to the private plane. It’s impossible to keep our hands off each other.
A lot has happened in the past two years. I opened my restaurant, Miraggio, which is Italian for mirage and is supposed to, y’know, communicate the changing nature of the cuisine. Because every time you come here, there’s something different. It’s been quite the success, actually, and even if the hours are long and the work is hard, it’s the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done, apart from the obvious. I don’t have the time to teach anymore, but I still paint as often as I can. The paintings hang all over Mirragio. We hold art exhibits here, too, twice monthly. There’s no more war with the Irish. There’s no more violence.
But as the private plane takes off and Carlo’s hand strays up my leg, none of that seems to matter.
Carlo looks straight ahead as his hand slides up the soft material of my shorts. I changed soon after getting on the flight. Wedding dresses are majestic, but they’re not exactly comfortable.
“Are you trying to play it coy?” I laugh. “Like that one time at dinner?”
He turns to me, his eyes suddenly intense. He pushes aside my underwear and strokes his fingers up and down my lips, pausing at the flaming spot of my clit.
“Stop teasing me,” I pout. “Or I’ll tease you even worse.”
I reach forward and grab him, rubbing up and down. He strains through the fabric of his pants. He’s barely holding himself back.
“I hope there’s turbulence,” I whisper, unbuckling my seat belt.
He does the same and then reaches across, grabs my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing. He’s even stronger since his injuries healed, since he’s been hitting the gym like a maniac.
I grind my heat against him and then reach down and free him from his pants. He groans shakily as I stroke pre-come from the tip to the base.
“If there isn’t turbulence, I’m going to make the pilot do somersaults,” he growls. “I want you to feel like you’re going to explode.”
I let