Page 150 of Claimed At First Sight

“But…” I hold up my hand. “Gabe always owned a special part of her heart. He got away with much more than the rest of us.”

“Why?”

I laugh. “I believe the night he was conceived was special to my mother.”

“Oh,” is all she says this time, her cheeks taking on a soft pink hue.

I don’t think she wants to imagine my father having sex. Nor do I, really.

“I didn’t realize your parents’ marriage was a love match.”

“It wasn’t at first. It was an arranged marriage, as you’d expect, but it turned into more,” I say, growing uncomfortable.

I don’t want her to get any ideas that ours will follow on the same path. My parents may have found love, but I have no intention of making the same mistake.

Love clouds judgment and weakens you. When it inevitably breaks, it leaves damage that takes years to repair, if ever.

We’ll have a far better marriage without it, built on loyalty, respect, and trust.

That’s all we need.

Chapter Forty-Two

Maximo

“To be honest, Mamma and I always had a close bond,” Mia says after a few beats, returning to our earlier conversation.

The careful phrasing gives me something else to focus on besides the emotions I’d rather keep buried.

I incline my head, studying her. Mia doesn’t call herself Caterina’s favorite, nor does she claim to have been closer to her than her sisters. Yet something in her tone suggests the relationship means more to her than she’s willing to explain.

Before I can probe her more on it, our espressos and genovesi arrive.

Any chance of continuing the conversation dies as Mia’s entire focus shifts to the pastry being placed in front of her.

I’ve never seen anyone so pleased to receive baked goods. I’ll have to add them to our dessert menu at home.

As soon as the shopkeeper leaves, she picks up a pastry and takes her first bite. Her eyes close and a look of pure satisfaction settles over her features.

“Oh, that’s good,” she all but moans.

I lean back in my chair. “You sound surprised.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to be this authentic.”

The baker, who is still within earshot, narrows her eyes. Mia immediately notices.

“So sorry,” she calls. “They’re perfect.”

The woman beams. Crisis averted.

Mia takes another bite, then another. A dusting of powdered sugar catches at the corner of her mouth, and she swipes her tongue across her lips to collect it.

I wish I could claim that the sight leaves me unaffected, but I’d be lying. I shift in my seat and focus on my espresso instead.

The next second, my gaze wanders back to Mia. Her eyes are closed again, completely absorbed in the pastry.

When they open and find mine, they’re bright with uncomplicated happiness. The brown of her irises has warmed to rich amber, tiny flecks of gold catching the pale winter light streaming through the window.