“I’m not planning on it, kid.” I walk around the counter, wrap my hands around her back, and hold her tight.
“I don’t want you to die too,” she sobs into my chest.
“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m perfectly healthy. I’m not going anywhere. It’s just a precaution,” I tell her.
Antonia walks into the kitchen. Her eyes go wide and then her expression softens.
“Let’s make those pancakes.” I kiss the top of Jazzy’s head.
“Okay,” she says quietly. When I pull away, she spots Antonia and scrunches up her face. “I don’t think you should get any pancakes because you weren’t very nice to my daddy.”
I smirk. I shouldn’t, but it’s kinda cool to know the kid has my back. “We talked about this, sweetheart, remember? I wasn’t nice to Antonia first.”
“Still, she should say sorry, right, Carlo?” Jazzy asks me.
“She should.” I smile at Antonia, who is now glaring at me.
Chapter Eight
He’s changed. Carlo. I don’t know if it’s just for the benefit of the little girl in the room, but he is not the same asshole whose heart I envisioned ripping out of his chest with my bare hands. Vampire style. Obviously, I know that would be physically impossible. I’d have to use some knives or something.
“You’re right. I should apologize.” I smile at Jazzy, because I don’t want to start this whole thing on the wrong foot. Whatever feelings I have towards her father are not her problem. “I’m sorry I was mean,” I tell Carlo, while picturing him bleeding out, my heel stomping on his heart just like he stomped all over mine.
“Like I said, nothing I don’t deserve. Sit down. I’m making pancakes.” He waves a spatula at the open kitchen stool next to his daughter.
“Carlo makes the best pancakes,” Jazzy tells me. “Banana is my favorite. What’s your favorite?”
“Blueberry,” Carlo and I answer her at the same time. It shouldn’t piss me off that he knows me so damn well. It does, though.
“Why don’t I flip the pancakes while you go and put on a shirt?” I stand and walk around the counter.
“Why? Is my being shirtless bothering you?” The asshole smirks. He knows damn well it’s bothering me.
“Carlo has your name on him,” Jazzy says, pointing to her father’s bare torso.
“No, he doesn’t,” I’m quick to reply, raking my eyes over his body. And then I see it.Antonia. Written in script. It’s small and mixed in with the rest of the black-and-white ink that covers his skin. But it is my name. “Why?” I ask him.
“Lots of people tattoo the names of people they love onto their bodies. It’s not a big deal,” he says.
“Are you going to put me on you somewhere? Can I get a tattoo of your name, Carlo?” Jazzy asks.
“Yes, I’m getting your name, sweetheart. Huge, the biggest I can get. And, no, you’re not allowed to have tattoos.” He points at her.
“Why not? You have them everywhere.” She pouts.
“Because they’re an adult thing to do, and they hurt. I’m not letting anyone hurt you,” he says.
“Shirt?” I repeat, because either he covers up or I need to get out of this room and away from his nakedness and his kindness to his daughter. Because I have ovaries and apparently they’re screaming right now.
“Fine. I’ll be back. Don’t burn them.” He hands me the spatula.
When he walks out, a silence falls over the kitchen. And then, out of nowhere, I get hit with the interrogation. “Do you love my daddy?” Jazzy asks.
“It’s complicated,” I tell her.
“But you married him. So that means you have to love him, right?”
“I married him because my father wanted me to,” I try to explain.
