My throat tight and unable to muster a farewell, I leave.
Is it me, or did Grandma sound vaguely threatening?
Chapter Nine
Dominic
I dice a bunch of fresh veggies for semi-homemade pasta sauce. Liza once again wants to stay in.
It bothers me a little that she’s such a hermit. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s embarrassed to be seen with me, but that isn’t it. She’s come by my bar a few times to surprise me, and I did manage to drag her out for tacos once.
I’m probably overthinking this.
Besides, I’m okay with what she wants. If she said, “Let’s have a date in Siberia,” I’d find a way to make it happen.
And staying in has some advantages. We can do takeout or cook together. She isn’t the best cook, but I’m pretty decent as long as I follow Mom’s recipes. Liza loves to sing in the kitchen, which never fails to put a smile on my face. She has an amazing voice, hitting each note pitch perfect.
I check frequently to see if she wants to go out someplace fancy where I can spoil her, but she always says no…and means it. Says our dates aren’t about splurging on expensive things but being with each other.
And sex. Lots and lots of hot sex, the best kind of sex.
It isn’t the best sex ever because Liza is particularly kinky—she isn’t. It isn’t because she’s overly adventurous—she isn’t. It’s her mind and soul that get to me. Our nights aren’t just filled with fucking—in between, we can talk about any and everything. The only thing we don’t go into is her family. She seems uncomfortable whenever the topic comes up.
“My dad… He has his own company,” she volunteered one time after I told her my parents died in a hit-and-run two years ago.
“What kind?”
“Not sure. I never paid attention. We aren’t really that close—he’s busy a lot. Mom was his first wife, and things didn’t end nicely.”
“Sucks. Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I think she’s happier without him, doing”—a whisper-soft sigh—“stuff.”
“What does she do?”
Liza hesitated, then finally said, “She’s a stay-at-home mom, although technically maybe not since all us kids are grown up now.” She forced a smile. “Like I said, we aren’t typical.”
Obviously not. Her family life sounds like it bites. Hell, she said her mom doesn’t want her to eat carbs, which is a shitty thing for a parent to tell a child. Liza also avoids talking about her brothers. Maybe they’re assholes like her mom. Everyone has something they don’t want to talk about, and I don’t dig, not wanting to ruin our moments together by dredging up bad memories.
Instead I draw Liza into my family of two. She and Kristen hit it off. Kristen seems to love having someone to talk to, her eyes full of mischief. There’re probably things she doesn’t want to tell me since I’m a guy, even though I’m family.
That crazy split-second pull I felt for Liza is morphing into something deeper every day—something that makes my heart nearly burst with fullness every time I think of her. Which is a lot. Like, every minute.
While cuddling on the couch after a dinner of pasta and ice cream, Liza tells me she wants to be an artist. At my request, she shows me some sketches she has in her huge tote bag. The subjects vary—fruits, trees, buildings, people on the streets. Each work captures the essence of the subjects with just pencil or charcoal, showcasing her talent and craft.
“These are amazing,” I say.
“Thanks.” She sighs. “But I’m nowhere near where I need to be.”
“Nowhere near?” I arch an eyebrow. “Let’s not be too modest.”
“No, really. Art is super, super competitive. Most painters don’t become famous until after they die.” She shrugs. “But I have a backup plan, just in case.”
“What?”
“Be an interpreter for the UN. I can speak Italian, French, Spanish, German and Japanese.
Whoa. “Six languages?”